


Paradise Enough

by fightingtheblankpage



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, BAMF!Stiles, Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Dubious Consent, Gen, M/M, Magic, Mental Health Issues, Mild Language, Panic Attack, Past Abuse, Revenge, bamf!Lydia, communication issues, discussion of death all around, use your words people, who knows what else
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-28
Updated: 2012-12-28
Packaged: 2017-11-22 18:09:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 31,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/612712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fightingtheblankpage/pseuds/fightingtheblankpage
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The pack leaves Beacon Hills after graduating high school, and Derek and Peter are the only ones left. Derek knows there is no hope of the pack coming back to him now that they've tasted freedom. Scattered around the country, various members of the pack battle their own demons, like unrequited love and terrifying memories. Back home, the very much unresolved issue of Peter's resurrection is starting to draw supernatural interest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Proof read by eak_a_mouse  
> Art by [veritycandor](http://veritycandor.livejournal.com/2963.html)  
> Written for the Teen Wolf Big Bag  
> I vomit A/N at the end of the work

 

They're all looking for something, when their last year of high school comes to an end.

It's what normal teenagers do, probably ‒ not like any of them has any recent experiences with what is 'normal' ‒ but they’re looking for so much more than just colleges and  future careers. It’s so much more than thinking about the future in general, really; because every time they try to do that, something drags them back. Something in Beacon Hills is always bound to drag them back, like it’s some sort of magical trap, and they can’t leave. So what’s the point in even trying to plan ahead, when life happens the way it wants to anyway?

That summer, Isaac and Scott start thinking about the gravitation of empty spaces. They both come up with this idea, each on their own, and they never discuss it, but apart from some finer details, they agree on one truth: if you leave a hole in your life and let it grow long enough, it will start pulling everything else in, and make your entire existence spin around it. Like a Black Hole, Lydia would suggest. But Lydia doesn't know about Isaac and Scott's musings, so they are left with more abstract terms.

The pack isn't big on talking about loss in general. Maybe they are just channelling Derek, who would probably rather sacrifice a kidney than discuss feelings. But in fact, it's hard to pick at the topic even in the privacy of one’s own head. It's hard when not everything gets resolved by sheer luck. Sometimes sacrifices have to be made, and other times, it's not even about sacrificing something ‒ the choice is made without any input on their side.

Almost two years before they head out to college, the pack lost Erica and Boyd to their struggles with the Alphas. They never truly discussed it, not even in terms of how to break the news to Erica and Boyd's parents, because with Chris Argent almost-but-not-quite on their side, some things become easier.

Scott thinks it shouldn't be easy. He wants to feel all the pain and all the hardships, because Boyd and Erica deserve it, and because if letting go of the dead becomes easy, Scott will know that something is wrong with him. More wrong.

Boyd and Erica were Scott's friends, he's okay with calling them that, and his schoolmates, but they were Isaac’s pack long before they were his, so Isaac lost them in more ways than Scott did. And then, of course, there is Derek - and Derek lost half of his pack for the second time in his life.

Derek doesn't talk about it, but he doesn't talk about it in the loudest way the pack has ever witnessed.

Their last year of high school was strangely devoid of any mortal danger of the organized variety. As it turned out, lack of supernatural violence  made them drift apart from each other.

***

One day, when they were all sitting around the table in the McCall's kitchen, Stiles suggested they should all apply to a college in the same city. Scott's house had become what the Hale house could not be: the place where they gather, with the door pretty much always open, because Melissa McCall might’ve had a hard time coming to terms with the whole werewolf issue, but she does understand a bunch of teenagers in perpetual deep trouble, looking for a place to stay.

"I'm not getting dragged down to your level," Lydia said loftily. She gave Scott, who was chewing on his pen, an especially nasty look. "My future is actually quite bright, and I don't care if you all have co-dependency issues. I can go on my own just fine."

She wasn’t actually too excited at the prospect, but the truth was, the entire pack needed space from each other. A lot of things had happened between them in the last year, and among them, some falling apart. Nobody even paid much attention to another bump in the road that was Lydia and Jackson's on-again, off-again relationship. Lydia still thought they are meant to be, in as much as she believed in those things, but she wasn’t sure _what_ were they meant to be. Jackson shared the sentiment, she knew. So for now they were taking some time apart, or, in Lydia's private opinion, she's moving on to greener pastures, waving Beacon Hills and its co-captains of the local lacrosse teams goodbye. College was where she's going to shine.

In the end, they don't go to the same city. They don't even manage the same state.

Well, Scott and Isaac stay in California. Lydia doesn't particularly care, so she doesn't ask what's up with Scott and Stiles' epic friendship that survived even the great werewolf revolution. Apparently, Stiles could survive Scott ignoring him for Allison, but not him getting a new best friend. Or maybe it's something else entirely - she really doesn't give a damn about them on her best days. _Boys,_ she figures, and leaves it at that.

Jackson and she don't even have a discussion about sharing a flat or anything along those lines. They're still in the space-needing period. Apparently, the space they need is that of the entire USA, because Jackson chooses the University of Washington ‒ law, of course, because he's still got his daddy issues, keeping them nice and life-consuming ‒ and Lydia chooses MIT. Getting accepted isn't really an issue, in her personal opinion. And in the opinion of people responsible for enrolment, apparently, so she gets in.

Alongside with Danny, actually. Lydia isn't sure how she feels about _that_. She likes Danny, she supposes. More so than she likes most of them. And Danny is smart, plus conveniently gay - so he won't drag any drama with him, even if he _is_ Jackson's best friend. Perfect.

As for Stiles, Lydia becomes the witness of his silent - and then not so silent, when he figures she's willing to begrudgingly listen to him - college meltdown. On one hand, he really wants to go and study somewhere nice. And he's got every right to do so; he had the second highest results in their school, losing only to Lydia, and surpassing Danny. His test scores mean that any college would be lucky to have him, but Stiles is _paranoid_ about leaving his Dad alone. With the way things seem to be going between the Sheriff and Mrs McCall, Lydia wouldn't call it 'alone', per se, but she doesn't use this argument. She lets Stiles figure this one out on his own.

He does, in the end. He stays in California, too, but at least he doesn't enrol in the community college. Lydia would probably personally drag him out of there otherwise.

And then there is Allison.

Yes, Allison. In Lydia's opinion, judgment is still out on this one, because maybe Allison hasn't tried to murder Lydia (as opposed to pretty much everybody else), but Lydia still holds a bit of a resentment. Call her bitter like that. Then again, Allison is Lydia’s friends, and she would like to come up with a way to break the icy wall of silence that accumulated between them.

Either way, Allison chooses an art college. The entire pack is surprised. When they find out from Chris Argent, that is, because Allison refuses to show her face anywhere near where the pack is gathering in its entirety (Lydia still isn't really over how that includes her, somehow), but Chris pops up at all kinds of occasions, and just sort of sticks around. Lydia has no idea what that’s about, but he’s their source of news about Allison, even if it's just Scott and Lydia who even want to listen. Long story short, Allison went back to drawing, and Chris is glad.

All of this means that the only two left in Beacon Hills are Derek and Peter.

"They're going to kill each other," Stile says with certainty, on the last day before they all start their great migration.

Lydia says nothing, but she keeps her fingers crossed.

***

Isaac doesn't know how to tell somebody that he wants to keep them. He knows words that push people away, words to hurt and words to break. He's heard them so many times and in so many variations, if he only wants to, he can draw from a never-ending supply in his head; he doesn't need to come up with any new ones.

Words of love, though, words of devotion and affection – Isaac has to build them himself, give them shape in his head. Every single one is his own, because nobody's ever directed them at Isaac. Isaac gets to breathe them to life, whisper them into being in the dark. They stop being his as soon as he thinks them, they all become Scott's, because without Scott there, there wouldn't be this tight pressure inside him, urging him to look for the right words in the first place.

Scott doesn't know. Scott should never, ever know. If Isaac can do one thing right in his life, it will be to shield Scott from those feelings; because Isaac knows that these feelings – they are twisted and hungry. He wishes he could say that it's the wolf side of him that wants to have Scott and to keep him, but in all honesty, Isaac doesn't think so. Those emotions may be but they are purely _human_ in their imperfection: Isaac is jealous of the attention Scott gives the rest of the pack, he’s nearly paranoid with trying to decipher meanings behind looks and words, can’t help but imagine how would it be if there were only the two of them.

Obviously there are things that Isaac shouldn't ever do, and then there are things Isaac craves and can't help hoping for. It's a quiet kind of hope, maybe even invisible, and Isaac carries it inside his chest like something precious.

It's a bit like that small glass figurine of his mother's – a ballerina, if Isaac remembers correctly – that stood on the commode in the living room. Isaac knocked it over once while dusting, and the ballerina broke. His Father locked him in the freezer after that, but it was one of those instances when the feeling of destroying something so precious was worse that the punishment itself.

Isaac doesn't want to break Scott, and he knows he could. It's not lack of modesty on his part – he thinks Scott has let him in enough for Isaac to hold that power over him. And it scares him, but it also makes him feel weightless, and maybe even dizzy sometimes – the good, excited feeling of something great that’s about to happen.

He doesn't even think about how much Scott could hurt _him_. He'd let him. Oh, he'd let him.

So really, it's for the best that Scott gets his grades up after all the werewolf drama finally clears a little, and he gets accepted to college. Not the community one, in Beacon Hills, and not outside California, either, but far away enough to be gone from home for the most part of the year. Isaac thinks he will stay in Beacon Hills. He doesn't have money for college, and even if he did, he doesn't think Derek would let him go. And even if _he did_ , Isaac doesn't think he'd go. He prefers to haunt the places that bear Scott's memory.

Only, Derek surprises him one day when they’re heading back from one of the pack meetings that now take place in the McCall house. They're sitting in the Camaro, and it's quiet, like it usually is between them. Isaac is thinking idly about how happy his pack seems to be, choosing colleges and planning for something that isn't an upcoming battle.

And that's when Derek says, all gruff and pointedly not looking at Isaac, "You'll go to college, too."

"But–" Isaac says. He's about to list all of the reasons why he can't, but Derek's eyes flash for a moment, and Isaac can take a warning.

"This isn't up for discussion." It sounds like something his Father would say. Isaac cowers in his seat, and it takes him a long while to figure out that this is how Derek is trying to show his good side. The gesture may be rough and forced, on both sides, but Derek means well.

Isaac, in all honesty, is excited for the whole prospect. He's even more excited when Scott and he get into the same college, and Scott starts talking about rooming together, and going to parties, and all those things that Isaac never thought he'd have. Like it's completely natural, like he never expected anything else.

In the meantime, Isaac searches for the right words in books, but they were written about other people, and even if they are elegant and smoothly-shaped, they don't fit that messy thing that grows in his chest. He knows he's not the first person in the world to fall in love, and not the first person to think that it _feels_ like he's the first person.

It starts by accident, almost. It's a week before Scott and he are leaving for college, and Isaac spends his days doing nothing – he always thought that it's just a saying, that nobody can actually do nothing; he's wrong – and Derek grows annoyed with him. But really, what is Isaac supposed to be doing? He doesn't need to pack anything. He doesn't even own many things.

In the end, Derek sends Isaac on an errand run, typical enough thing: pick up groceries, fill the Camaro's tank. Somehow Isaac finds himself staring at the white blankness of the back of a receipt, and on an impulse he buys a cheap ballpoint pen. He stretches the receipt on the Camaro's dash, and writes in his small, practiced handwriting:

_Today I've read that when someone you love leaves, they take your heart with them. Bullshit. My heart is still here, because I can feel it. Scott hasn't even left, but I think he might have taken my lungs, because breathing is harder now._

He doesn't mean to show it to anybody, or to keep it, actually. He just slips it into his pocket, and somehow the words feel lighter when they are hidden there instead of the inside of his head.

Isaac doesn't think much about it, just keeps the pen.

***

Lydia moves in on a Monday, with classes starting the next Tuesday. She decided that should give her enough time to settle in, and take a look around. She doesn't feel any sort of anxiety, nor is she worried about fitting in. She's Lydia Martin, after all, and she doesn't even consider any other option than absolute success.

She's just the smallest bit frustrated at the fact that she can't room with Danny. Then again, it's as good a chance as any to start regaining her position at the top of the social ladder. Lydia flicks her hair over her shoulder, straightens out her shirt, and marches into the room that she's supposed to be occupying for who knows how long.

"Hello," she says with confidence. "I'm Lydia Martin, and we'll be rooming together." She makes that sound like a great privilege - which, honestly. Any person assigned to receive the blessing that is Lydia's presence _should_ feel privileged.

For a second Lydia thinks that maybe the other girl isn't here, and she's just spoken to an empty room - but no, among half-unpacked cardboard boxes and a mini-universe of bags and backpacks, there is a girl seated on the bare mattress of one of the single beds stuffed in the room. She's tiny, even by Lydia's 5'3" standards, with a mess of dark locks and a mobile phone in her hand. She looks to have given up on unpacking at some point, and now is just giving Lydia politely confused, wide-eyed stare.

Lydia assumes the girl's an exchange student, and doesn't speak a word of English. Lydia knows a considerable number of foreign languages, but for now she settles for the ultimate language of people speaking to foreigners everywhere: she uses her native tongue, only she speaks _really slowly_ , "I'm Lydia Martin," she repeats. "Your roommate."

The girl blinks like someone emerging from a very deep daydream, and smiles. It's a slow smile, one that takes over her face gradually, in a way that is just this side of creepy. "I know," she says. "It says so on our door?" She jumps off the bed, her bare feet managing not to slip on any of the objects scattered on the floor, and Lydia decides that this simply isn't where she's going to meet her new, hopefully popular friends.

The girl sticks her hand out. It's unpleasantly cool, as if the girl is a dedicated smoker. "I'm Amelia Connors. 'Amy' works just fine, too. It's my second year here, so don't hesitate to ask for pointers. Where are you from, Lydia?"

Amelia ‒ no way is Lydia playing in diminutives ‒ asks her the normal set of questions, while Lydia separates her boxes. She decides to start unpacking now, and she can do it just as well while going through the motions of obligatory chatter. To be completely fair to Amelia, she’s just trying to be friendly. Lydia realizes that she may miss Beacon Hills just the tiniest bit, and that's why she's so crabby. She may not be one of the wolves, but she's part of the pack. She belongs somewhere.

As if on cue, her phone rings in her purse. Lydia picks it up almost immediately, and thinks about asking Danny, because it’s Danny calling, if he feels it, too - this unwanted pull - but then she remembers how they look at her every time she says something they consider odd.

Lydia Martin, the town's crazy lady.

Not here, though. Here she's this brilliant, pretty girl with perfect smile, and she won't let Beacon Hills haunt her. And so she gives Amelia an apologetic wave of her hand, and says to the phone, "Have you settled in?"

"Yeah, mostly," Danny says. He sounds hesitant. Lydia can hear low chatter in the background, so he's probably in a corridor, not in his room. "I think my roommate may be a devil worshiper, so there's always that. And what about yours?"

"Stiles," Lydia says, and hopes Danny will understand the secret keyword for people who talk too much. He does, and huffs out a breath that isn't really a laugh, but it's _Danny._ "Devil worshiper?" she asks conversationally, trying to hang her dresses in the too-small closet. When she sneaks a look over her shoulder, Amelia is just sitting there, smiling at her.

"Yeah," Danny says again. "I don't know, maybe I've just gotten used to Jackson and his‒" He trails off, clearly unsure of whether he's allowed to talk about it.

Lydia smiles just that much more, and makes her voice brighter, "Come on, let's discuss it over coffee. Where are you now exactly? We need to find some characteristic landmark and meet there."

Danny starts giving her directions, and Lydia lets herself stop smiling only once she's out of the dorm room. She refuses to think about how Allison - or Stiles, for that matter - would call her out on her bluff in a second.

***

There are just the two of them now: Derek and Peter. The entire pack has fled ‒ well, that's not exactly true. It's not like they used a false pretence to escape. They simply _went to college._   And Derek let them go, because otherwise they'd leave of their own accord. Derek wouldn’t be able to handle the humiliation if he told them ‘no’ and they went anyway. They had just started talking about college applications one day, and Derek's face had gone blank so carefully, Stiles decided he had to call him out on that.

If they were to be attacked now, reduced in number as they are, they wouldn't stand a chance against anything more than a couple of omegas, even with Peter's werewolf powers mostly back. Beacon Hills has been relatively calm since the alpha pack, but that can't go on forever. It's like they are sitting on a ticking bomb sometimes. For a Nowhere, California, their town gets a lot of supernatural traffic.

Derek grows restless, in the quiet and stagnancy of his empty house, and Peter grows restless with him. It's partially due to the bond they share through their alpha-beta dynamic, but mostly it's a lot simpler: when you put two people, especially people who don't particularly care for each other, in tight quarters, their emotions will bounce off of each other, accelerating to the point of breaking.

Derek grows restless, and then he grows silent. More silent than usual, and it means that he's thinking about something. He mulls over dark ideas, and Peter doesn't ask. Probably because he doesn't care. He just keeps away from Derek, most of the time.

That means that Derek is on his own. Fully without his pack.

Derek is strangely, calmly accepting of that. There is no responsibility, and so he can just lay silently on the bare mattress in the room he's claimed for his own, until Peter decides to drag himself back in from wherever he's disappearing off to, and just stare at Derek with his condescending little smirk, until Derek finally breaks and starts talking. Peter is all the pack he's got now, despite everything.

"The pack needs new members," Derek says, matter-of-fact, but also on edge. He likes to think he isn't looking for Peter's approval, but really, who is he kidding here? Even with everything that went down between them, Peter will always be his uncle, the one he used to look up to, and Derek is able to admit to that. And there is a small part of Derek, buried under the ashes, that is still the little boy who Peter used to take care of.

The little boy who used to have the bravest, most magnificent sister in the entire world, and lost her because of the very same man.

"New kids, maybe?" Peter suggests in a voice laced with mockery. "If you start turning them even younger, they're bound to stick around for longer. It's pure mathematics."

Peter's comment is accurate, in that he pinpoints Derek's main insecurity perfectly.

Derek is afraid that none of them will come back.

He thinks about the pair that he's already lost: Erica and Boyd. He usually tries to ignore the spaces they've left behind, but there are just too many of those in his life, and he's bound to stumble into them.

He thinks about Isaac, the only one who is truly _his._ Who actually wanted to stay with him.

Then he thinks about Scott and Jackson, who are part of his pack out of convenience. Derek believed they were all starting to learn how to be a pack after all, and that Scott and Jackson would eventually come around. That's out of the question now.

Derek even spares a thought for the humans: Stiles, Lydia, and Allison. It's strange, without Stiles' sheer presence filtering the air, and without Lydia's air of authority and strangeness than even his wolf recognizes. Allison hasn't been around much, but she still counts, in Derek's book.

By association, he counts also Melissa McCall, Chris Argent, and the Sheriff, because family of his pack is his pack. He doesn't say it out loud, just keeps an eye on them.

"You turned Scott," Derek notes.

"I did," Peter agrees easily. "It wasn't ideal, but he was the only choice."

Derek tries to let go of the anger building inside him. The truth is, none of them were _ideal_. If Derek had a choice, and had time, he'd have chosen differently. He doesn't know if he'd be better off this way, but he wouldn't have given the bite to any of those kids. And it's not just Derek's resentment speaking here, or his guilt over Boyd and Erica's deaths – he simply admits that they have nothing on the Hale pack of the old days. It takes time to build this level of synchrony, and it's hard to build it without most of the pack present.

In the end, Derek doesn't even know if he wants a pack. He entertains the idea of leaving Beacon Hills, even, but just for a moment. His roots are here, or what remained of them after they've been severed by Kate and by Peter. Derek just doesn't have the strength to start afresh one more time.

Instead, he simply gives up.


	2. Chapter One

Living with Scott is, for understandable reasons, both the worst and the best thing to happen to Isaac.

Isaac is glad he isn't in the process of falling in love with Scott, or in denial of his feelings. He's quite good at being honest with himself, and at facing his emotions. At least the good ones - and he likes to think that even if what he feels for Scott may be on the unsafe side, it makes Isaac a better person, at least. Forces him to make the right choices, because they are _what Scott would like him to do._

Scott is a pretty annoying person to live with, when Isaac stops to think about it. He's got all the bad habits of a teenage boy, of course - the clothes dropping, the random-items-on-the-floor leaving, the dirty-mugs forgetting. Habits that Isaac never acquired; his Father made sure of that. And Isaac doesn't feel like picking after Scott. He may be in that embarrassing phase where he's in constant awe of everything that Scott does, says, and thinks, but he isn't at _those_ levels of obsession.

That's really nothing compared to Isaac's newest pet peeve: the daily Allison calls.

Isaac knows what this makes him sound like: a bitter, jealous rival hating on the ex-girlfriend. The worst part isn't how he's almost sure some of that must show on his face every time Scott picks up his phone, like Isaac is one of Pavlov’s dogs, only instead of drooling, he grimaces uncontrollably. The jealousy Isaac can handle, because it's just _him_ who’s experiencing it _,_ and he's learned to bottle all his emotions up to some impressive, Derek proportions.

No, the part that makes Isaac grit his teeth, that really gets to him?  It comes after Scott reaches for his mobile and makes this apologetic kind-of-shrug before walking into the corridor, to get some privacy from werewolf super hearing or to spare Isaac from having to listen to the same string of 'I miss you' and 'I'm thinking about you'. Two times out of three, Allison doesn't pick up her phone. In an objective sort of way, Isaac understands that Allison needs her breathing space, and time to figure out what she wants now that she doesn't have Beacon Hills breathing down her neck. That's how Isaac feels, even without the sort of loss and pain that happened in Allison's life.

Isaac knows that this is one of those days when there is no reaction from Allison, he can read it from the slouch of Scott's shoulders when he walks back into the room. Scott crosses to his desk, just short of dragging his feet like a cartoon character, and drops into the chair. He starts spinning the phone on his thigh, his jaw set, and Isaac alternates between sneaking looks at him and doing his reading.

Isaac has no idea why he chose to do a course in Lit, apart from the most generic 'I like reading, they want me to read, why not'. He obviously never thought it through, and now he has mixed feelings about pushing himself through texts translated from Old English, still sounding too harsh and Germanic, but telling stories that catch Isaac's interest.

He gets distracted by one of lengthy battle descriptions, wondering if any of those warriors with wolfs as their sigils were actually werewolves. He's distantly aware of the continuous sound of the mobile phone's plastic sliding over denim, and then of Scott tap-tapping at the computer. Neither one of them says anything for a long while, and finally Isaac relaxes. It's annoying and ridiculous, how he spends almost as much time thinking about Allison as Scott does.

Most of all, it's exhausting. As if Isaac doesn't have too much on his mind without that.

"Hey, man?" Scott says, and Isaac tears his eyes away from the alliterations that the previous owner of the book helpfully and unnecessarily underlined for him. "Is that assignment _really_ important?"

"Kind of?" Isaac tries, hesitant. "I mean, I still have tomorrow to read it, and it's not so long, so-"

"Okay, cool. We can head to that bar Ethan's been talking about. I'm getting antsy from all that studying." Isaac arches an eyebrow at the books on Scott's bed, some of them still in the plastic bag they came in, and Scott amends, "From all the sitting around and avoiding studying."

"Sure." Isaac marks the right page in the book, closes it, and unfolds himself from the bed. He straightens up, and looks around for a jacket, while Scott waits for him restlessly by the door.

Isaac rummages around in his drawer, suddenly struck by the need to find that receipt. He nearly destroyed it by throwing his jeans in the laundry. But here it is, safe and folded in half, tucked under his clothes. Isaac grabs a post-it from the small pile of office supplies they bought with Scott, and writes on one of them:

_I wish she told you 'No'. Not for my sake, because I want you for myself – but because I want you free, and able to breathe like I can't._

"What are you doing?" Scott asks, almost on a whine. His restlessness is contagious, and Isaac slams the drawer closed.

"A quick note so that I don't forget to do something later. Are we going or what?"

Scott grins, and it's almost the real thing, so Isaac grins back. They head out, and Isaac tries to steer the conversation to some more neutral topics. He asks about the rest of the pack. Erica and Boyd were the only ones, apart from Derek of course, with whom he had any sort of bond. After the last two years, he can say that he has a close acquaintance with Stiles and Danny; and Jackson, Lydia, and Allison don't hate him. Still, apart from an occasional text from Danny or Stiles, and of course the whole _living with Scott_ thing, he doesn't really keep in touch with the pack.

Scott starts talking about how Stiles has adapted to college surprisingly well, even if he meanders outside the tentatively forming circles of college friendships. Isaac nods along, hands shoved deep inside his pockets and his back, as always, curved forward, like he's always expecting a blow to come from somewhere.

They haven’t even reached the bar - one of those dimly-lit ones, filled with people who seem to know each other and have been drinking together their whole lives; most importantly, one of those where they're sure they won't be carded - before Scott manages to slide from the topic of Stiles to the topic of Allison. Isaac isn't even surprised; he continues nodding. He can be patient as a glacier if he wants to be.

It stings, little pinpricks all over the centre of his chest, to imagine how would it feel to have Scott's undivided attention like that, even when he's not around. Allison has Scott’s attention even when they are hundreds of miles apart. Isaac would like to be able to say that he'd prefer to be some safe distance from Scott, but really, he bets that if he _was_ in another state, he'd angst over not being able to see Scott on daily basis.

The great Scott paradox.

They end up drinking local beers and reminiscing about the summer. Isaac just zones off at the parts where 'reminiscing about the summer' turns into 'reminiscing about what Allison looks like in the summer', and all in all, they have a pretty nice evening, even if the beer does little to even impede their judgment.

Too bad. Isaac would like to be able to use it as an excuse.

***

"In the last month," Danny says conversationally, not turning away from his laptop. He's been tapping away at the keys for about half an hour now, without any considerable pause, "Has anybody called Derek?"

From her comfortable sitting position on Danny's bed, Lydia shrugs, and goes back to flipping through the stack of flayers that Danny and his roommate have managed to accumulate. They probably went out of their way to drag every last piece of paper here.

Since Danny can't exactly see her, with his back turned toward her and his face to the screen, Lydia sighs and says, "Scott, maybe? I think the procedure here is that if none of us is in mortal peril, we don't bother Derek. The pups are out, and the alpha's enjoying having the house to himself."

"There's always Peter," says Danny. They tried telling him about Derek's uncle, but Danny refused to listen to anything else after the 'coming back from the dead' part. He told them that he can take only one ground-shattering revelation a year, and the existence of werewolves will take a decade to process, so that's that.

Lydia is envious of the luxury of choice that Danny had, and still has. He wanted in, and now he's in. Lydia would be happy without most of the supernatural knowledge she possesses, if not all of it. She'd be happier still without the memories of the year when she was sixteen. But it doesn't work like that; she can't give up the bad parts and keep the good (and she likes to think that there were good parts: she got to make new friends in unexpected places, and came to appreciate new things), so she spends most of her energy on repressing the unpleasant memories.

"I'd prefer to be on my own, than to have him for company," Lydia says despite herself, and now it's Danny's turn to shrug.

"He can be creepy. I never talked to him, because there was no reason, but Jackson says-"

"Can we not talk about him?" Lydia asks, and hates how her voice is too shrill to sound natural. But Danny isn't Allison with how she’s too perceptive to be safe to keep around, so he just nods, and says, "Sorry."

Lydia bets he thinks she means Jackson.

She doesn't. She means Peter, but she won't say his name out loud.

She looks around for a different topic, but the walls are mostly bare. Danny isn't a big fan of hanging up posters, and his roommate decorated the space above his bed with a mixture of generic European heavy metal bands and half-naked women keeping company to dragons, mythical monsters, and one lonely unicorn. A black unicorn, though, so that probably makes it okay.

Lydia's eyes fall to the flyers in her lap. The one on the very top of the pile is dimly yellow, and asks Lydia in nice cursive to join the local white magic group. Lydia blinks at it, but it doesn't go away. 'Do you have a curse to break?' it asks, possibly seriously. 'Or just need to share some positive energy?' Lydia suffers from a sudden wave of second-hand embarrassment, but also some strange mixture of giddiness and panic.

Magic, in her experience, falls into two categories: those things that Deaton uses it for, and those that end up with Peter  being dragged into her head and out of his grave.

"Is this yours?" Lydia asks. She tries for teasing, but she can't very well hear her voice with how blood is rushing in her ears.

Danny twists in his chair to look at what she's holding up. He furrows his brow, doing that squinting thing that makes Lydia think he should maybe consider acquiring glasses. "No," he says before turning back to the laptop. "Roommate's."

"Are you sure he even exists?" Lydia asks, folding the flyer absentmindedly. "How come he's never here when I come over?"

"Maybe he's scared of you." Danny doesn't say it, but Lydia may be overstaying her welcome. Danny clearly has some work to do.

Danny isn't exactly heartbroken when she waves him goodbye, which supports her theory of him needing some one-on-one time with his computer. Lydia hums to herself, silently hoping that Amelia isn't in their room; for reasons Lydia can't and doesn't really care to put her finger on, Amelia is boring to the point where Lydia’s jaw aches from all the concealed yawning.

Lydia crosses the campus with her favourite ghost of a smile – a barely there twitch of her mouth that gives her a pleased look. It works, too, because before she reaches her dorm room in another building, Lydia gets invited to three different parties, one of which she's pretty sure was delivered by a guy who isn't part of the student body at MIT.

That's where her luck ends. Amelia _is_ in the room, and when Lydia walks in, she gives her a brilliant smile. She's holding something that looks like an old fashioned family album, and Lydia freezes in the doorway. No way. She's not doing the show and tell with various members of the Connors clan. Not on a Friday afternoon.

Lydia scrambles for ideas. It's way too early to go to any of those parties, and Lydia has been spending so much time in the library she already has her own table there, just after the first month.

"Are you heading out?" Amelia asks. She jerks her chin towards Lydia's hand, and Lydia looks down, confused. She hasn't realized that she's still clutching the witchcraft meeting flayer.

"Yes, I think I may–" Lydia unfolds the yellow paper. There are meetings on Fridays, so that sounds like as good an excuse as any. Well, she supposes it might be funny; oddballs are entertaining.

When Lydia looks up, Amelia has already jumped off her bed, and is now looking at her expectantly, tilting her head so that the mess of her dark hair is spilling over her shoulder. "I've got nothing better to do anyway. Mind if I tag along?"

Lydia has toned her bitchiness down considerably since the beginning of high school, so now she doesn't say an outright 'No'. She does make a face, though, which Amelia promptly ignores, and attempts politeness. Seriously, the pack would be so proud of her, she's clearly growing as a person.

If they were here, that is. If they cared. Lydia stomps that thought down brutally. No way is she starting to wallow in self-pity now. And over whom? _Not gonna happen._

"Do you know where it is?" Lydia asks, practically throwing the slightly crumpled sheet at Amelia.

Amelia's eyebrows shoot up, but she doesn't comment. Amelia apparently can muster Beacon Hills levels of apathy when it comes to the strange and uncanny. "It's a coffee shop, some five-ten minutes from here. I didn't realize you're into– alternative lifestyles?"

"It's college," Lydia says easily. "We all try different things."

"True," Amelia agrees. "Just be happy you weren't here last year. I was going through a serious 'searching for myself' phase. No idea where I got the idea that I lost myself in the first place. Too many young adult novels, maybe."

"Was it bad?" Lydia asks, suddenly honestly curious. Who knew, Amelia does have an interesting side to her. Or used to, at the very least.

"Oh, it was. It was _pink hair_ kind of bad."

They walk out of the building, and Lydia finds herself smiling. Amelia is smiling, too ‒ she almost always is ‒ and they start talking. It’s been some time since Lydia had a chance to be around regular people, and act like them. To be a human among other humans, not the immune girl surrounded by werewolves. It’s surprisingly nice.

The coffee shop is called 'Purple Turtledove', and it's an accurate name, in that it's annoyingly catchy: Lydia finds herself repeating it in her head a dozen times, testing how quick she can say it. It's one of those overly modern places, with too many artificial colours splashed over an array of chairs and tables that are supposed to look comfy and homey, but look like they're trying too hard. Like a display in IKEA. Amelia points to one corner of the room, where around a plastic round table sit five girls and one boy, all a year or three older than Lydia.

"It's them," Amelia says before leading the way between furniture and the other patrons. She sounds amused, which, Lydia must admit, is understandable. If she wasn't so uncertain of her motives for coming here in the first place, she'd probably feel more in on the joke, but still.

One of the girls, with very short hair and a weather-inappropriate scarf wrapped around her thin neck, turns to them as if on cue. She eyes Amelia and her beatific smile, before turning to Lydia. "Hi!" she says. She has a pleasant, dark voice, as if made for singing ballads. "We were just starting, grab a seat." She gestures to a beanie bag to her left, and Lydia drops into it, almost falling to the side before catching herself on the edge of the table. Amelia drags a chair for herself from the neighbouring table, and the blond boy with a broken nose scoots over, making some space for her.

"I don't think anybody else is going to show up," says a girl with dyed, copper-tinged hair. She's addressing the one in the scarf, and Lydia guesses they know each other. Judging by the slightly uncomfortable atmosphere around the table, they are the only ones. Amelia seems right at home, waving at one of the purple-clad waitresses, and claiming the space in front of her with her phone, pocket mirror, lip gloss, and an array of other items that she picked out of her bag, including a bag of liquorice candy.

Sudden inspiration strikes Lydia, and she knows why  Amelia gives off those boring-adorable-weird vibes.

Amelia is a tad bit like Lydia's grandma. That's new. Lydia heard about people like that, way too old for their looks, but hasn't met anybody like that before. She assumed it's a thing that one says about characters in a book, but no. Amelia carries liquorice candy with her and likes to look through family photos. Lydia feels like quizzing her on soap operas.

"Probably not," the Scarf Girl agrees. "That's some good turn up anyway. Now." She turns back to the table, folding her hands on the table and giving them all a look of professional interest. Lydia half-expects her to ask them to join one of those business pyramids things. "Hi again. I'm Jenn, and this is my best friend, Minnie. After Tyler graduated – some of you maybe knew him? – I was lucky to be chosen by him as the— head of this group. How about we start with a round of introductions?"

Lydia has to fight hard not to tune out this part. She has no idea what she's doing here. She has no idea what she's been expecting. They are just a bunch of kids who have seen 'Hocus Pocus' one too many times during the Halloween movies marathon. None of them had to go through the same things as Lydia, they can't even imagine—

"Lydia?" Jenn asks carefully. She's leaning over her, trespassing on her personal space. "You look pale. Are you okay? Is there anything you'd like to tell us? You can do it here. We won't judge."

"No," Lydia says curtly, raising to her feet and grabbing her purse from the floor. "Thank you. I came here because— I didn't mean to come here. Sorry for wasting your time. Just, carry on without me."

Amelia stands up, too, and she uses her forearm to push everything she's managed to scatter on the table back into her bag. It clatters loudly, and she smiles apologetically before swinging the bag over her shoulder, nearly catching Blake on the head. She follows Lydia, who is already halfway to the door.

Jenn catches up with them on the street. "Wait, Lydia, please! If you came to us for help—"

"No," Lydia says again. "It was just a stupid joke. I wanted to see what you guys are doing. I'm at MIT," she stresses, for the time being deciding to ignore the fact that so are the rest of them, "I don't really believe in those things."

"I think you do," Jenn says. She catches Lydia's arm, and Lydia tries to tear away from her without causing a commotion. "Come on, Lydia. If you know something—"

"Let me go!"

"This is important, I need you to focus—"

"I think this is your cue to leave, Jenn." Amelia's voice is level, and for once, she isn't smiling. She doesn't look like a stern grandma, either. She doesn't look very menacing at all, but the glare she gives  Jenn encompasses her entire tiny frame, and Jenn lets go of Lydia's arm. She backs off in short, quick steps that make her high-heeled boots rattle against the pavement.

Jenn looks at Amelia like she really wants to say something, then turns to Lydia, opens her mouth, looks back at Amelia and turns on her heel to disappear back inside the coffee shop. Lydia quirk an eyebrow. "What the hell have you done to _her_? She looked positively spooked."

"I was in that group for a while last year. The whole searching for myself thing? We never really got along with Jenn. I decided it's not my scene, too. And evidently, she doesn't take well to rejections."

"Yeah," Lydia breathes out.

Lydia knows what sort of people inspire fear - and that wasn't just respect in Jenn's eyes back there, it was actual fear - in other people involved, even in the vaguest sense, in the whole paranormal business. She remembers who made the werewolves of Beacon Hills afraid: the kanima, and _Peter._ Neither of them entirely human.

She takes an abrupt step away from Amelia, almost knocking into a man trying to walk past them. Amelia raises her palms in a  placating gesture, giving her space. "Lydia," she says softly.

"Oh no. We're not doing this. I'm so over people lying to me, and keeping secrets, and telling me to _calm down._ If you aren't telling me something, come clean now or-" She trails off, unsure. Her threat of choice - or, actually, the only threat available ‒ had become 'Or I'll send werewolves after you'. But her werewolves of choice are scattered all over the States, and Lydia feels even. "Who are you?" she snaps.

People are staring at them, slowing down to get an eyeful of two girls fighting. Amelia drops her hands to her sides, but she keeps her expression neutral. "I'm a student, just like you."

Lydia doesn't know why it calms her. It must be a lie, but there is something in the way in which she utters it. It reminds her of the way Deaton answers the same questions. However many times Lydia asked, and she did it with great insistence, he would always tell her that he's a vet.

"And apart from that?" Lydia asks.

Amelia purses her lips, turns her head this way and that, searching for something, and then nods. It gives her the appearance of someone arguing with themselves, and sends her curls flying. "Not here," she says at last. "In our room."

Lydia know she shouldn't go anywhere with Amelia, especially away from a public place. But she can't help the fact that she wants answers, and Amelia doesn't seem like she wants anything from her. Just the opposite, it seems like she wants to give Lydia answers, which is far more than she could say about her friends some two years ago.

So she goes, and she hopes it's not the worst decision she's made since running away from Beacon Hills.

***

"Derek!"

Derek exhales roughly, screwing his eyes shut. He drops the milk into his shopping cart. It makes a wet sound that makes Derek immediately check if he wasn't too enthusiastic about it, but a brief inspection doesn't reveal any dripping. By the time he's done with that little crisis - and how bores is he exactly, if that constitutes an event worthy of mentioning? - Melissa McCall is smiling at him in the most friendly manner anybody has smiled at Derek in a long while.

"How have you been?" Melissa asks. She's still in her scrubs, and from up close she looks extremely tired. Double shift, if Derek was to hazard a guess. "I haven't seen you since Scott moved out."

"No point in me loitering around your kitchen," Derek says. He's startled at how rough from lack of use his voice is. Peter and him aren't on speaking terms. _Again._ Derek prefers it that way, he really does, but he's starting to grow suspicious of Peter's long disappearances and the increasing frequency with which he's throwing grins Derek's way.

"Not really, no," she agrees with a nod. "The house is strangely empty. I went from having one - no, actually two, Stiles counts - teenagers raiding my fridge, to five teenagers and one grown man, to no teenagers whatsoever. And still no grown men, I'll note with understandable sadness." Melissa manages a weak smile. Derek can't tell family bonds apart from pack bonds, because for him, they were always intertwined, but he can't understand a mother missing her child. Just as he understand a son missing his parents.

"It's quieter without the pack," he offers. It's about as much of a comfort as he can give her, but Melissa nods nevertheless. Her eyes look kind of dry, and Derek hopes it's just the lack of sleep. He can't handle anything else. He's not equipped for those things.

Still. Melissa McCall is pack, whether she knows it or not. Whether she understands or not. And something tells Derek she may have a firmer grasp on this than he expects her to. "Look at me, I'm one of those mothers," she says. "My son has been away for a few weeks, and I'm already pestering his friends in public places."

Derek nods in an automatic response, and Melissa levels him with an unamused glare. It almost pulls a smile out of Derek. Instead he asks, "Did he say when he's going to be back?"

Something flickers in Melissa's dark eyes. It looks suspiciously like surprise mixed with just the smallest dash of pity, and Derek has to keep himself from baring his teeth. He's gotten rid of most of the anger that was filling him like smoke, choking him from the inside, but now he can feel it creeping back in. The longer he goes without a pack, the worse it gets.

"Hasn't he called you?" Melissa asks. Derek's tightly set jaw says it all, really. "Hasn't none of them?" She backpedals quickly after seeing Derek's eyes flicker away and back to her. "Well, they're teenagers out there in big cities, they feel like grownups. Like they don't need to check in with their parents. Or their Alphas," she adds, and Derek takes it for the peace offering that it is. "You could be called a parental figure."

Not really, no. Definitely not, if Derek starts thinking about it. He tries to convey a lot of negation without saying anything, or moving.

Melissa smiles at him kindly. "They'll all be back for the Christmas break. And in the meantime- We're having something like Abandoned Parents Dinners with John and Chris. We mope and try to convince each other we've got lives outside of our kids. It's surprisingly not depressing. You should come over sometime."

He really shouldn't, but before Derek finds a way to decline politely but firmly (and it's the first part he's worried about, because firmness he's got covered), his own brain turns on him and sends some opposite signals to the muscles. And Derek is nodding, and Melissa is smiling, and telling him that he knows where she leaves. And then she's gone, just the smell of hospital and screeching of her cart's wheels lingering in the air, and Derek stares blankly ahead.

It escalates surprisingly quickly after that. Derek finds himself in a sort of stupor, drifting through town and occasionally stopping at Melissa’s house for one of those semi-regular dinners. The worst part is, he's starting to enjoy them. He relaxes around Melissa, John, and Chris. He likes Melissa's non-cooking, as she calls the few things that she can prepare from scratch and is pretty proud of. He finds it enjoyable to talk to John and Chris. He starts getting comfortable.

"No wonder," Peter tells him one day, when he decides to make an appearance in the Hale house. "No wonder you feel right at home. You're about the age where you should have that, Derek. Family. Little pups running around. Alas, there's just this."

He makes a sort of all-encompassing gesture, taking in the charred walls, the jarring holes in the roof, the shattered windows. Derek growls after him, but Peter doesn't care, doesn't even turn to look at him. _And whose fault is this?_ Derek thins bitterly after Peter's retreating back. _Whose fault is this that I can't have it?_

But really, there is no point in thinking those thoughts. Luckily, Derek is the master of repression, so he does just that. And the next day, Peter is gone again. Derek harbours understandable hope that one of those days Peter will just waltz out of his life. At the same time it's his bigger fear. Without Peter, he'll surely slide all the way down to the Omega's status. An Alpha without a pack is no Alpha at all.

He entertains the idea of bringing somebody new in, but just momentarily. There are only so many times he can try before he gets tired of losing. He can bend himself only so much, and leave himself open and raw only for so long. Derek experiences this strange dissonance where on one hand he wants to spit it all out and bare himself to the remaining three humans who are only symbolically a part of his pack, but on the other, he just wants to lock this all down, and never, ever let anyone catch even a glimpse of what he's thinking.

The second side is winning, but only by so much.

He attends the dinners, and doesn't glare too much, and watches games, and listens to any and all information about the pack with hungry eagerness. At first Chris is hesitant to talk about Allison in front of Derek, but soon enough that's gone. Derek wonders if this is how it should be. The outer circle of his rag-tag pack sneaking up on him.

None of this prepares him for Christine Martin cornering him in the grocery shop's parking lot, car keys jingling ominously in one hand, and her purse clutched under the other arm. Derek hears her approaching long before he sees her, and he's got half the mind to just jump into the Camaro and run away, especially when he turns around and Christine has this very set expression on her face that reminds him of Lydia when she decides she wants something. Derek has been on the receiving end of that look just once, when Lydia demanded explanations on the topic of werewolves, and he doesn't care for a repeated performance.

"Derek," she says by the way of greeting, and Derek considers maybe just getting the groceries delivered to his house. Clearly it's no longer safe for him to shop for them on his own. Christine motions to him with the keys, and says, "I wanted to talk to you."

"About Lydia?" Derek guesses. "I don't know anything. She doesn't check in with me."

"She doesn't check in with me, either," Christine says, and her lips twitch into something of a displeased frown. "Or her father," she adds, and this, Derek figures from her expression, is a good thing. "Well," she says briskly. This is very Lydia-like, too, this impressive ability to shake everything off and just barrel on. "That's Lydia for you. She must've gotten caught up in something new."

Derek really hopes not, given the things Lydia got caught up in the past. He doesn't say this out loud. From what Lydia's mother knows, the pack is a group of randomly thrown together people with common interests. Derek didn't pay much attention to Stiles when he was coming up with a cover story, but it involved them getting really into the history of Beacon Hills, and hiking around the area. Derek guesses this makes him a bit less of a creeper, hanging out with teenagers, but sometimes he thinks people of their town don't notice anything amiss only because they're wilfully blind and _prefer_ not to notice.

"All right," Christine says with a smile, "sorry for keeping you." She looks surprised at herself, blinking slowly, and Derek wonders if maybe Christine feels the pull of the pack, too, but doesn't understand it. He tries to smile at her in what he hopes is a sympathetic manner. "Right," Christine says again. "Have a nice day, Derek."

She wanders off to her car, and Derek watches her go. Maybe the town isn't in danger with the pack away. Maybe there is nothing hiding in the dark, but there certainly seems to be something going on between the humans involved. Derek tries to think back to the times when the humans of the Hale pack were momentarily away from the wolves. Were they restless like that? Or is he reading too much into this?

Derek shakes his head, and gets in the car. He entertains the notion of calling Scott, or Isaac - but nothing is wrong, there is nothing going on, so there's no reason to.

***

It's been two months now that Isaac's thoughts have been mostly steering clear of the topic of his Father.

Two months is the longest he's gone without having the air sucked out of him by the memories, and the confusing jumble of the good and bad things inseparable in his head. Good times laced with bad times, and the darkest, most terrifying things that his Father did to him made all the worse because _he didn't used to._ He wasn't always like that. Maybe if he was, Isaac could let the memories go. Decide that it's not worth keeping them, and label his Father a monster in his head.

But, no. Sometimes Isaac still randomly watches a few seconds of a sports channel his Father would be interested in, or sees something in a newspaper, or just overheard a snippet of a conversation, and catches himself on a thought along the lines of 'I should tell this to Dad'. Then he remembers his Father isn't there anymore, and there is no one to tell those things _to._ And only then, at the very last place of this short list, he remembers the last few years between him and his Father. He remembers the freezer in the basement, and the blows, and the kicks, and the words that weren't any less than the physical pain‒

And he hates himself for not being able to untangle this mess. It must make him weak, but at the same time makes him a specialist on conflicted emotions. Still, he chose his Father as his anchor. When he mentioned it to Scott, once, close to the full moon, Scott told him that it doesn't means weakness ‒ it means that he can draw strength from the part of him that is still human.

Scott and he, they look at the world very differently. Isaac is fascinated by the way Scott perceives everything, and a little envious. He'd like to be able to see so much _good_ and share this unshaken belief that whatever happens, Scott will be able to make it better. Not because Scott thinks he's better than everybody else, or stronger. He just thinks he ought to be the one responsible. Whatever happens, Scott takes the blame and then takes charge. He's a leader, and Isaac would follow him. Not because of his feelings, but because Scott seems to be the best option.

Scott is full of light, vibrant in ways that Isaac never thought he'll be applying to any person; too perfect, even. That would explain why Isaac can't look at him without his chest feeling like a hollow hall and his eyes burning a little.

He's _good_. Isaac never had a use for this word, he thought it small and inconsequential. _Good job_ , people say. _This tastes good_ , Isaac thinks sometimes when Derek lets them order pizza. _It's a good idea_ , Stiles agrees. Good is a word that he's said so many times it stretched out like an old sweater and became useless. But with Scott, it fits again. It's perfect, perfect description.

Scott is good.

Isaac isn't. He's pretty much an asshole, on his best day. Less so than he used to be, but still, he isn't good. Simple as that. He'd like to be, though. He'd like to get Scott to say this about him one day.

But Scott does so much for him anyway, offers him his friendship and lets him in on his life, and Isaac wouldn't dare to ask. That's why he doesn't mention his Father appearing more and more in his thoughts, and when Scott asks him if he's cool with hanging out with Tyler, his deeply detached girlfriend Maria, and their friends, Isaac says 'Sure'. Even though he feels like staying in his room, and letting those thoughts chase around his head until they grow tired and just leave him alone.

He says very little throughout the whole evening, maybe even less than Maria, but nobody notices, because they are tipsy and loud. Scott seems to be having a good time, if the way in which he gesticulates with his beer, spilling it around, is any indication. Some of that must be an act for the sake of their college friends, so that they don't notice him not getting inebriated, but some of it is just Scott being Scott. Actual, happy, more than a little goofy Scott.

When they drag themselves back to the dorm room, Scott smells of warmth and alcohol where he keeps bumping shoulders with Isaac. Isaac feels a blush creeping up his cheeks just from this casual touch, and yes, he's so far gone it's no longer even funny. But Scott doesn't notice, as always. He's talking, his hands assisting him in the conversation: his palm sliding over Isaac's forearm, his knuckles brushing against his chest. Isaac chases the sensation of warm skin through thin cotton before he recoils, breathing raggedly. This isn't good, this isn't what he should be doing.

"I'm gonna hit the showers and crash," he says, trying to make his jerky movement look like him putting this plan into action, instead of just stumbling away blindly. Scott shrugs, already having let it go.

Isaac has a random feeling of gratitude that Scott is as oblivious as Isaac could wish for him to be. Maybe even _too_ oblivious. If he keeps encroaching on Isaac's personal space like that, Isaac may snap.

Back in their room, Scott is already in his bed, with the lights out and the covers dragged all the way over his head, so that just a few strands of dark hair are sticking out. Isaac tiptoes to his own bed, and climbs in. The sheets are scratchy and stiff, cool against his bare torso, and when he burrows his cheek into the pillow, it smells like him, but not like the rest of the pack. Their combined smell that Isaac came to associate with home and security is fading from his clothes, until all Isaac has to keep him tethered to this sense of belonging is Scott.

He slips into unconsciousness gradually, first his body growing heavy, then his head following suit. It's obvious from the start that he's not going to get much rest from his sleep. He tosses and turns, and bundles the covers around him until they are a suffocating cocoon. It must trigger something in his subconsciousness - the cold touch of the bare wall where he presses against it, the tight pressure of covers restraining his legs where he wants to kick them off - because his dream shifts and turns into something else.

Isaac's back almost snaps in half from how he tries to arch it, and his claws snap out, sinking easily into the soft mattress. In his mind, he's caged. Stuffed into that tight space of the freezer, with his too-long limbs that just never seemed to be done growing, and with fear clutching at him harder than his Father ever could.

There are hands on him, and Isaac chokes on the mixture of relief at not being alone anymore and panic that it may be his Father, coming to hurt him again. And again, and again, and again, because the worst part about this? The worst part is how in his dreams Isaac is sure it will never end.

The hands are insistent and firm, but they don't want to cause him pain. Isaac fights to the surface, despite everything dragging him back down, and claws at freezer's lid.

Only there is no freezer. There is just Scott, his eyes glowing golden in the darkness of the room, and his chest is stained dark. Isaac can't comprehend this for long seconds that are filled with his gasping and shaking from phantom cold. Slowly, reality starts slotting back into place, and Isaac's own eyes, still blue, go as wide as they can.

"Scott, oh god, sorry, sorry-" Isaac retracts his claws, and they slide out of Scott's body with wet, sickening sound. Isaac tries to wipe his hands on the covers, but it's not working, there is still blood under his fingernails. It's Scott's blood, on Isaac's hands. That's the last thing he ever wanted, the most terrible thing he's ever seen, and Isaac tries to kick himself off the bed and away from Scott. He's hurt Scott, and he wants to whimper, and apologize, and run away from that room that stinks of Scott’s blood and his fear.

But Scott's holding his wrists in the loose shackles of his fingers. Isaac could tear away from him without putting any energy whatsoever behind it, and that's exactly the reason why he doesn't do it. Scott never uses force against Isaac, and he doesn't do it now; he just looks Isaac straight in the eye, and waits until he catches Isaac's gaze before he speaks. "It's already healed. It was just a nightmare."

"I hurt you." Isaac's breath comes out rugged, and whistling in his throat. Scott lets go of Isaac's wrists, and Isaac immediately presses his hands to his stomach, as if he's trying to hide them inside his body.

"It's already healed," Scott repeats. He shucks his t-shirt up, exposing his dark skin. It's stained with dried blood, but far less than Isaac expected. Isaac reaches out, shaky and still ready to bolt, and he lets the tips of his fingers check for wounds.

Scott is telling the truth - there are none. Scott never lies to him about anything, and Isaac relaxes a little, just enough so that his muscles aren't hurting from how coiled they are. He pulls back  to let Scott's shirt roll down, and goes very still when Scott gets off the bed. Isaac tries to get his breathing back under control, and pulls the covers over himself. He's so preoccupied with _getting himself under control_ , when Scott yanks the covers off him, he manages to exhale in indignation, but nothing else, before Scott is throwing covers from the other bed over him.

Scott grabs the wooden frame of his bed with one hand and pulls it across the narrow space in the middle of the room, until it's pressed to Isaac's bed. Isaac watches him, completely bewildered, as Scott walks out of the room, telling him to stay put, and then comes back with a wet towel. He has Isaac clean his hands with it, and then cleans his own chest of the blood, uses his dirty t-shirt to dry it off, and puts a clean one on. This entire time he's quiet, and Isaac doesn't turn his eyes away from him. It's easier to concentrate on Scott's movements than to think about what caused Isaac to be in this situation in the first place - or about what he did to Scott.

Maybe Scott is _too_ good, or even plain gullible when it comes to the people that he likes, because after he redresses himself, he simply climbs back into their joined beds. He lays on his back, just being there and not forcing Isaac to speak, until Isaac can't take the silence any longer, and asks, "What are you doing?"

"You can't sleep under those covers," Scott says by the way of a non-answer. "They reek of blood."

"No," Isaac says. " _What_ are you doing, Scott?" He's wary, and even though he trusts Scott with his life, he isn't sure if he can trust him with his heart quite the same way. Scott can hurt him entirely involuntarily, and there is just the smallest bit of resistance still in Isaac.

"This is going to sound stupid," Scott says on a huff, almost like a laugh, only dry and choked. "Stiles got me a book for my birthday. It was about wolves, because he's still not over those jokes. There was something there about wolves being- tactile. And I figured you'll feel better closer to someone from the pack."

It's true, but it only makes Isaac want to disagree. "I'm not sure about that book," he says. He tries to curl in on himself, like he usually does after one of those nightmares. He draws his knees towards his chest, and tries to wriggle as far from Scott as he can without wriggling out from under the covers.

Scott moves behind him, and then there is an arm thrown across Isaac's middle, and a warm chest pressed to his back. Isaac goes immobile, and tries not to react at all when Scott's breath tickles the back of his neck, "Wolves do this all the time, right?"

Isaac feels like he's losing his sanity here, falling into the bizarre world where those things actually happen to him. From lack of a better idea, he goes for bravado. "Wolves, really? We're not wolves, Scott. We're werewolves."

"Yeah," Scott says. Isaac sort of wishes he would just stop talking, or at least stop talking this close to his skin. "Some things still apply, I guess? We're pack. Pack helps each other."

That's what pack does, or what pack should do. Isaac understands that, and lets himself relax into Scott's touch, focusing on his scent and the feel of his embrace, letting it ground him. He uses this comfort to chase the bad thoughts away, and doesn't even feel guilty about it.

Or about the fact that he's being selfish. He's selfish enough to pretend he's still asleep in the morning, just to stay in bed with Scott for a little more. Selfish enough that when he finally gets up, he takes another post-it and scribbles across it before tucking it away at the bottom of his drawer.

_It's simple: I wish we were in love. I wish you did the things you do for me because of that, not for the pack._

With another of those confessions off his chest, Isaac feels lighter when he heads to class. Or maybe it's just because his skin smells like Scott, and his bed will smell like Scott when he comes back in the evening, and Scott, in turns, smells like home more than Isaac's actual home ever did.


	3. Chapter Two

"I don't know where to start," Amelia admits. She's sitting on her bed, her legs folded underneath her and one hand buried in her hair, tousling it in an uncomfortable, almost nervous gesture.

Lydia can't sit down. She wants to pace around the room - which, admittedly, doesn't offer too much pacing space - but stops herself, deciding to stay close to the door. Amelia is some 5" of grandma topped with hair that looks like it could swallow a comb, but Lydia learned the hard way not to believe impressions. Her eyes have lied to her before, so Lydia keeps an escape route close at hand.

"I believe the line I should use here is 'Start from the beginning'," Lydia says, leaning against the door-frame. She tries to appear at ease, and wonders if witches, or whatever Amelia is, can sense feelings just like werewolves do.

"I'm not sure where the beginning is," Amelia admits. "It's sort of a circular thing. Hard to just choose a point and jump in. Can we work under a few assumptions first? First of all, I'm not going to tell you that I don't want anything from you. I do. I do need your help, Lydia. But I can give you something back in return."

"Why?" Lydia asks. She appreciates Amelia not pretending to be selfless here, but at the same time, it makes her all the more wary. If she's so open with that, she must be hiding something bigger.

"I'm getting there. For the time being, just assume that it's because of work-related reasons." Lydia crinkles her nose, but Amelia doesn't offer any more explanation on the topic. "Let's just- Do you know how certain people are interested in certain things, and they know about them, while the general population has no idea or doesn't care? For example, I bet you know a lot about fashion. When fashion shows happen, new collections hit the stores, things like that. The analogy may be faulty but I'm assuming you visit the right web-pages, or buy the right magazines, and you don't even think about it. And there are other people like you. But then there are people like me, who have no idea about those things." She makes a short, self-deprecatory gesture to her clothes, and Lydia nods absentmindedly. "I ‒ and some other people ‒ notice the supernatural side of things. It's like ripples forming on water. You don't have to stand close to notice it."

Lydia nods, and asks, "And what have you noticed?" There is something cold settling in her stomach, a premonition of some kind.

"Beacon Hills," Amelia says simply. "What happened in Beacon Hills. What is still happening there. I think at first we just assumed that it will go away on its own. But it's getting stronger, those‒  vibes. Strong enough to alarm us here on the other coast."

"And it started over two years ago," Lydia says. There is no question in her voice, because she doesn't need an answer.

Amelia provides her with one anyway, which isn't a big surprise. "Yeah, give or take. I'm not sure, because I'm new to the business. Still, I know that it was an old type of a restoring or resurrecting spell. Something that made witches in entire California get headaches for weeks. Something you were involved in, and still are."

Crossing her arms over her chest, Lydia plops onto the empty bed. The dramatic effects is dulled by how she bounces a little on the mattress. "No. I'm through with that. He doesn't‒ He doesn't appear in my dreams anymore. It's done. He's alive, I did what he wanted, and now I'm here‒ It's done."

She's distantly aware that she's talking faster and faster. Amelia watches her carefully, her expression going from earnest, to worried, to understanding. She slides off her bed and takes a place by Lydia's side. She's about as uncomfortable with what she's doing as Lydia would comforting someone. She pats Lydia awkwardly on the knee, and when Lydia doesn't react, asks, "Want to talk about it? I'm surprisingly good at comforting people."

"I'll pass." Lydia tries to scoot away from Amelia without being too obvious. "You can tell me who you are instead. Why do the other witches hate you?"

"As I said, I went through my witch phase last year. I dropped out of their group when I got my job, but they weren't very happy with me."

"You just told me who you _aren't,_ " Lydia points out. "What is that mysterious job anyway? What do you do when you're not here on the weekends? I just assumed you visit family, but I didn't want to ask, because I was afraid you're going to tell me all about it."

Amelia gives her a tight-lipped smile. "I talk to people."

"About what?"

"Merits of changing their way of perceiving the world and moving on. About change in general, really."

Lydia raises one eyebrow in her most sceptical look of this conversation. "You mean you work at a funeral parlour," Lydia deadpans. She's getting side-tracked here, but for some reason her mind is supplying her with images of Amelia dressed in black, discussing merits of different coffins.

"That's strangely close to the truth," Amelia says, confused. "And at the same time, disturbingly specific. Would you mind having a therapist look into that?"

"Already did that." Lydia waves her hand. "Just tell me."

Patting her on the knee one last time before retracting her hand, Amelia sits up straighter. She calls on that consoling smile that Lydia has seen before. It's the smile her parents were trying to model their faces into when they were telling her they're getting divorced.

"I help people move on after death. Make sure that they do it in the first place, really. Not all of them, for obvious time reasons. The ones who are problematic. And within driving distance."

Nothing can surprise Lydia anymore. The moment she comes to terms with that is both cathartic, and a little disappointing. Just a little, though, because Lydia has had enough of surprises in her life up until this point, and none of them were pleasant. Lydia takes Amelia's news in stride, and is quite proud of how her face goes just a tone of two paler, but her hands don't shake at all, nor does her voice when she asks, "You're the grim reaper?"

Amelia's smile gains a smudge of honesty and loses some of its forced quality. "'A' grim reaper. Not 'the'. One of many. It's a job like every any other; it pays the bills."

"What bills? You're in college."

"Oh." Amelia blinks. "You come from one of _those_ families, don't you, Lydia?"

" _What?_ "

"Ignore that part, please. I'll try to get back to the point. The people who pay me‒"

"Who pays you anyway? Who are the people who‒"

"People who care. That's not the point anyway. As I was saying, the people who pay me worry about certain things happening certain way. When people die, they should stay dead. Apart from those people who come back to life after intense reanimation, of course, we respect those."

"But not werewolves who were in the ground for months."

Lydia looks down, at her folded hands, and tries _not_ to remember. Not to remember how they looked tainted with violet wolfsbane powder, or wrapped around Peter and Derek's hands, linking them together, or soiled with dirt the source of which she couldn't recall.

Some things should stay in the ground, buried and ignored. She helped Peter dig his way out of his grave beneath the floorboards. On logical level, yes, she knows it’s not her fault. But sometimes she thinks she let Peter in, allowed him free reign over her head. It wasn't like he just found his way into her mind one day. There has to be that moment, one she can't pinpoint, where she willingly opened the door for him, doesn't there?

"Not them, no," Amelia agrees gently. "It's sort of my assignment to right that wrong."

"I hope you mean killing him." Lydia doesn't care how cold her voice is in that moment, or what Amelia may think of her. That is the one thing that can make her calm, and make her feel safe enough to go back to Beacon Hills. Her eyes are wide and bright when she turns them to Amelia. Hopeful, even.

"I‒ Not precisely. This may look as a matter of semantics to you, but I don't kill people. Just persuade them into moving on. And don't ask me to where, I have no idea, how could I?"

A wave of disappointment weighs heavy on Lydia's shoulders. She nibbles on her bottom lip, and the chemical taste of lipstick there. Maybe she should be shocked at how easily the thoughts of revenge entered her head, but really, they've always been there.

Lydia has a keen mind that is always working on a plan. They're mostly escape plans.. Not because Lydia is a coward and thinks about running, but because that seemed like the only way to get the entire pack out alive during their struggles with the Alphas.

It didn't work, and the way her tongue sometimes stumbles over two names missing from the short list of the pack's members is the best evidence of that.

Lydia is brilliant at planning. She doesn't even have to concentrate on it, because it's ever-present at the back of her head. So right now she starts planning against Peter, even if what Amelia says isn't encouraging her to do so. At some point Lydia even entertained the idea of suggesting to Derek that he should give her the role of the Alpha Female of the pack. She could fill the role easily, and Derek and she could work out some sort of _platonic_ way to do this. Lydia could take care of the pack, even if people rarely think of her as of the protective type. But not with Peter as a part of it.

All her plans come short because of Peter. He's still with her, even if he doesn't invade her thoughts as a ghostly presence anymore. Lydia can't repeat it enough times: she wants him gone. From her life, from her friends' lives, from the town that will always be her hometown, and where her parents still live.

"But it's important enough that you heard about it," Lydia says, determined to get more information. "And also Jenn, probably. There was something suspicious about that interrogation. You mentioned that it's getting bigger? What is, Peter's influence?"

"We're a gossiping bunch, what can I say. And Jenn isn't bad at these things. Well, she's too concentrated on putting on a show for my taste, but who knows. I don't know how much you know about magic‒"

"Nothing, plus or minus a few snippets here and there. I went to great lengths to make sure of that."

"Okay, I can understand that. There are two basic things that concern you here. Or one thing, which then splits into two." Amelia sticks her index fingers together, and then pulls them apart in an attempt to make her point clearer. "Magic lingers. It leaves traces behind, and some people are able to use them. That's what can happen in Beacon Hills. The spell you used‒ The spell Peter made you use left some residue. We assume it opened some sort of passage it shouldn't, because it was a bit sloppy, and now, instead of closing itself, the tear is getting wider. And since you were the one to‒ Well. It needs to be closed by the same person who opened it. Now to the second part, which is even more relevant to you. Do you know how one starts dealing in magic?"

Lydia assumes it's a rhetorical question. Amelia's expression is one of expectancy, so Lydia rolls her eyes at her. The corner of Amelia's lips twitches.

"To start with magic, you have to start with magic. I know it sounds redundant, unless you give it a deeper thought. The way I see it, almost every person can get into it, but you need someone who is already in to help you‒ Open the passage. Let's call it 'a spark'. A spark to ignite things."

A spark. The word fits oddly in Lydia's mind, like it already had its place in this context, and Lydia mulls it over before she remembers one of those conversations with Stiles during which he tried to fill her in on everything she'd missed out on. Stiles told her most of what she knows about Deaton, including how Deaton showed Stiles how to _be_ that spark. Lydia is almost certain that Stiles has no idea that it means he's been dragged even deeper into the supernatural community.

"You have been given that, Lydia," Amelia says. "Without your consent, true, but it's a part of you now."

"A part I don't want," Lydia says. "A part you can take away, thank you."

"I can't take away any of that." Amelia sounds apologetic, and Lydia doesn't like it. "But you can use what you've been given. I can teach you, if you want to, and help you get your closure."

Lydia knows what will give her closure: making sure that Peter goes back to the hole in the dirt he crawled out of, but this time for good. She calculates and ponders Amelia in silence, and decides that Amelia can help her up to some point, whether she wants to take it all the way or not.

Lydia smiles, and nods, and says, "I'd be grateful." And Amelia smiles too, clueless to what is going on inside Lydia's head. Lydia doesn’t trust anyone, she outwits them.

***

Isaac doesn't push their beds apart. He pretends that it's because he doesn't have time: he has to pick up books from the library, hand in an essay, and give a CD back to one of the guys from his Lit History classes. He also keeps away from the dorm room, because he isn't entirely sure if he'll be able to look Scott in the eye. His gut is doing terrible, clenching-twisting things every time he thinks back to last night. It was punctuated by nightmares, but once Scott settles with his arms around him, Isaac's fear settled, too. However problematic this may turn out to be in the future, he had drawn great comfort from Scott's touch. The warmth of it stayed with him for the entire day. Isaac's shoulders had slouched even more in an attempt to keep the feeling of Scott's fingers on his chest and hip with him.

But when Isaac comes back to their shared room, the beds are still pushed together, and Scott is sitting on them, his legs stretched out across both of them, and his back against the wall. He's fiddling with his phone, his thumbs flying over the screen. He grins at Isaac, though, before going back to texting. "Where were you all day, man?"

"Doing college things, attending classes and so on? Seeing as we're in college?" Scott gives him a sheepish smile, and Isaac mirrors it before he, traditionally, sabotages himself. He can't help that he actively works against himself sometimes. "Allison?" he asks, jerking his chin towards the phone in Scott's hands.

Scott's face falls, which would be funny, because he looks like a cartoon character, but it's Scott, and he's unhappy, so Isaac has to stop himself from letting out a distressed whimper. "Allison told me to maybe cut off on the texting? She says she's got a lot of classes. College things." He tries to call the smile back so hard, it makes Isaac uncomfortable. "I'm texting Stiles. Want me to tell him you're saying 'hi'?"

"Yeah, sure." Isaac drops his backpack in the corner. Scott can act in a way that inspires thinly veiled insults to hatch in Isaac's head. The problem is, Scott also has this puppy dog look that makes it impossible for Isaac to _voice_ any of those thinly veiled insults. The great conflict of the hero, right there.

It's not so late yet, so Isaac cracks a book open and sort of stands there with it until he figures that he can either sit next to Scott, get distracted and not do any reading whatsoever, or in the office chair by the beck, which isn't comfy, but _is_ safe. He chooses the second option before getting sucked into the book. He's finding the coursework surprisingly enjoyable, and tries very hard not to admit it.

Right now they're discussing courtly love in classes, and it gets Isaac thinking. He's got enough romance in his life as it is, if one-sided and doomed, but he can't say he can apply the idea to his life. The Old English poets were oddly prone to omission when it comes to awkward boners in the morning.

Isaac writes another note on his bookmark  before he goes to sleep. He stuffs it back in the book, with a mental note to retrieve it before somebody in his class sees it. The notes on different pieces of papers, cardboard, and one Styrofoam cup, are getting a bit out of hand. His drawer had stopped accommodating his shirts because of them, so when Isaac was absolutely forced to get a new pair of shoes, he kept the shoe-box. He transferred the notes there, and then hid the box at the bottom of the closet, and ignored the irony.

_People used to fall in love differently, or maybe it's just me finding new ways to do it completely by accident._

The joined bed becomes something of a tradition, or maybe Scott is too lazy to move his bed back to the other side of the room. They never talk about it. Isaac keeps his distance, and his hands to himself; it's Scott who sometimes gets a bit clingy in his sleep. Isaac doesn't call him out on that - obviously, he's not going to deprave himself of a good thing while it lasts ‒ he just commits every occasion to memory.

And in the morning, he makes sure to slip out of bed while Scott is still asleep or when he isn't in the room anymore, taking his shower. Something tells him that Isaac sporting his not-so-discreet erection from Isaac just _cuddling_ him may be a deal breaker.

It's all manageable, really. Isaac has it under control. When full moon comes, Isaac thinks nothing of it, or not much, at the very least. He's gone through many of these since he's been turned, and he doesn't need chains and locks. Mostly he just plans to sleep through most of it. It's Scott who's been worse off ever since he and Allison hit that latest bump in the road and he lost his anchor.

Scott's restless and easily agitated, alternating between just sitting with his head between his knees or standing in the open door, or storming randomly out of their room to 'take a walk' only to come back minutes later, having remembered that he can't count on privacy on campus.

Isaac watches him, his eyes gleaming, but his shift not progressing any more than that. He feels bad about how smoothly things are going for him when Scott is clearly in pain. Isaac monitors Scott's heartbeat and his laboured and ragged breathing. He's already asked Scott if he needs anything four times. One more, and Scott will probably try to maim him with his claws. Even though that would be bound to relieve some of Scott's tension, Isaac knows that Scott would feel guilty in the morning. And where Scott was quick to forgive Isaac his transgression, he's far more strict with himself. Isaac has no idea what to do about it, and so he spends the first two days of the full moon pretending to sleep or falling into short, dreamless naps.

There are only so many days even a werewolf can go without real sleep, though. On the third night Isaac's too tight-strung to fight it anymore. He falls asleep with Scott leaning heavily against the door, clearly debating whether he wants to stay in or go out again. The last thing Isaac sees is Scott digging his claws into the false wood of the door.

In his dream, Isaac finds himself in a forest. At first he recognizes it as the woods around the Hale house, but as he takes off running, the trees start growing taller and older, covered in moss and vines, and Isaac doesn't know where he is anymore. He keeps running, pushing himself away from the soft ground, the air heavy and tasting almost green when he inhales it in greedy gulps.

There are other smells filtering the eerie silence of the woods, too. Animal smells, appetizing to Isaac in his fully shifted werewolf form. They are all coming from far away, faded and vague, and the forest coloured by the moon's silvery light appears to be empty. Normal forests never are, not quite like that, and it puts Isaac on edge. His emotions are magnified by the call of the moon, and it makes Isaac run even faster, tearing through the undergrowth, jumping over fallen trees and branches.

Suddenly, he freezes, distracted by the potent, intoxicating scent of blood. He turns in that direction, sniffing the air until he figures out where he should go. He starts running again, hungry and with s primal need twisting his bones. He marks trees with his claws as he goes, even as the trees are getting further and further apart, giving way to a grassy clearing.

Isaac slows down and then stops, half-crouched in a predatory position. His yellow eyes are focused on Scott, who is kneeling, hunched over a carcass of an animal. It's torn and mauled to the point where it takes Isaac a moment of intense staring to decide what the animal used to be. A deer, probably, but now it's stomach is open and spilling out, the blood and innards twisted around Scott's hands. Scott is smiling, his canines sharp and white, gleaming in his red mouth.

Isaac hesitates on the edge of the clearing, captured by the completely gone look on Scott's dirt and blood-streaked face. Scott lets out a low, guttural sound that Isaac mimics automatically. He gravitates towards Scott, and Scott pulls his prey closer to himself, guarding it jealously. Isaac crouches down next to him, sliding in the slick mixture of guts and fluids. He breathes Scott in, raw and uncontrolled as he is now, close and very alive with the lupine power thrumming in his veins. Scott looks up at him, finally turning from the dead deer, and Isaac feels panic and excitement at what he finds in Scott's expression.

Scott pushes himself onto his haunches, bracing one hand on Isaac's collarbone. Isaac goes willingly, landing on his back, with Scott on top of him. He doesn't notice the forest around them changing in the typical smoothness of dreams. All he knows is that the smell of blood is stronger now, and his hands are slipping on wetness when he tries to grab at Scott and find purchase in his clothing. . He needs to touch more of him, even with Scott pressed above him, about as close as two people can be without physically merging together.

They are long past words; neither one of them is capable of speech. They communicate through grunts and low, animalistic barks. Isaac tries to wriggle around, not to get away, but to spread his legs so that Scott can fall into the v of them. Still, Scott isn't pleased with Isaac moving at all, and he snaps his teeth at Isaac. Isaac freezes, his head tilting back on instinct, his throat bared for Scott, long and pale in the moonlight.

This meets with Scott's approval, because he dips his head and closes his teeth around Isaac's throat. Isaac can't hold the whimper in, and suddenly there are hands tearing at his clothes, ripping them away till hot, clawed, and not especially gentle fingers are searching out Isaac's cock, drawing it out. Isaac wants to arch into the touch, and at the same time _not_ to impale himself on Scott's sharp canines. Scott starts jerking him off in quick, dry moves, and it's all on the cruel side, painful and yet still pushing Isaac towards his orgasm.

It's not how Isaac wanted this to happen, but he'll take whatever Scott is willing to give him. He'd like to try and kiss Scott, at the very least, but Scott's teeth are sinking into his neck, the claws of his free hand sinking into Isaac's forearm to keep it pinned to the ground.

Isaac wants to climb out of his skin, and away from the sensation that is threatening to pull him under. He doesn't care about Scott opening new wounds in his body; just about Scott not taking his hands off him. The claw-marks must be injecting poison into his system, because Isaac can't think, can't concentrate, can't‒

He wakes up with a start, sitting up in the bed. He's damp with sweat and drying come on his thighs. He breathes hard, fighting the shift and his racing heart. It takes him a moment to come to his senses, and when he does, Scott is looming over the bed, watching him. He's partially in his werewolf form, with his hackles elongated, and his eyes glowing. Isaac tries to bundle the sheets around himself, hide in them, but this is the real Scott, not the broken phantom from his dream.

"I‒" Isaac starts, but Scott cuts him off.

Scott's face is expressionless and strangely pale in the darkness, and when Isaac musters enough courage to sneak an almost-look at Scoot, he notices the tic in his jaw. His throat is clenching and the hollow feeling in his chest is expanding, trying to overwhelm him. Isaac doesn't ask whether Scott hears him, or managed to put two and two together - it's quite obvious from Scott's blank expression.

"We won't talk about this," Scott tells him, and leaves.

He doesn't come back until morning, and Isaac cleans himself up in silence, and then pushes the beds apart as far as they'll go. His movements are stifled by how guilty he feels, and he keeps his head occupied with most mundane thoughts. It doesn't work. He feels like crying, or maybe throwing up.

The first thing he writes that night is:

_Scott can't be my anchor. He brings me to the brink, not back from it._

He stares at the piece of paper for a long time. It feels off, because it's not Scott's fault. It's all Isaac, who loathes himself for being right: what he feels for Scott isn't good. It's warped, and his dream proves it.

The second thing Isaac writes that night is:

_I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry_

Over and over again, until his sheet of paper is filled. For the first time, getting the words out doesn't make them weigh less in Isaac's chest, and he stares at the paper, twisting it in his fingers, until it's barely readable. He still doesn't feel any better, not when he hides it in the usual shoe box, and not later, when the dawn washes the room off colour and leaves it grey with the first morning light.

They don't talk about it, and Isaac would maybe prefer for Scott to be furious at him, or disgusted with him. Instead, Scott acts as if nothing happened. As if they are still friends.

***

When his phone buzzes in his pocket and Lydia's name and half-sneakily taken picture turns up on the small screen, Stiles has some very mixed feeling.

First of all, he's excited, because Lydia usually isn't the one to reach out and call first, unless she wants something. And there's nothing she could possibly want from Stiles after roughly four months of them not seeing each other _or_ talking to each other. His next assumption is that Lydia dialled his number by mistake, but this clashes sharply with his conviction that Lydia never errs. Well, maybe apart from that Jackson thing, but she's seen the light, because from Stiles knows ‒ and his frequent talks with Danny over Skype ‒ Jackson and she are broken up. Again.

Whatever the reason, Stiles scrambles to his feet and excuses himself from the room to pick the phone up in the corridor. He's chased by voices calling for him and loud laughter. Stiles isn't sure how this happened, but at some point pretty early in his college life, he'd managed to develop the social life he never had back in Beacon Hills. The people in his room aren't exactly his _friends_ , because those slots are already occupied and he's not planning on creating any new ones, but they like him, and think he's funny, and don't look at him hard enough to know if he's faking.

They aren't werewolves, either, which in his book is another enormous plus. Those roles are taken, too.

"Lydia!" Stiles exclaims once he's wandered far enough down the corridor that the voices are distant and unrecognizable. "Always a pleasure to hear from you‒"

"Stiles," Lydia interrupts him. It takes Stiles just one word to tell that she's anxious, far from her usual, composed self. He fills with sympathetic worry almost instantly. If anybody cared to ask, Stiles would tell him that no, getting to be a friend of Lydia's, and a part of the same pack as her, and then spending weeks and weeks away from him, hasn't done anything to weaken his feeling for her. Stiles came to terms with the fact that he'll never be over it, most likely. "I need you to tell me that you'll do what I ask of you."

"You know I will," Stiles says softly. He doesn't even have to think twice about it. The people he's met, and his new life ‒ all that gets pushed away, dissipates like a dream and Stiles feels like he's back in Beacon Hills, with another threat looming over them. Whatever he does, he can't really leave that town. It drags after him, and Stiles wonders if the others feel the same. "What's wrong, Lydia?"

"I‒" There is some rustling and static in the speaker, as if Lydia's walking around with her phone. "Some things happened here, Stiles. And keep happening. It's hard to explain over the phone. I don't know if I’ll ever understand it correctly." She sounds frustrated. Lydia loves knowing, and understanding. It's others who are supposed to wander blindly in the dark until she deems them worthy of sharing her brilliant intellect with.

"Seriously," Stiles says on a loud exhale. "Tell me what's wrong, because I'm coming up with some terrible theories on my own. Did something happen to you? Do you want me to come over?"

Lydia laughs, the sound startled and tense. "You're on the other side of the country. Would you really come all the way here if‒ Actually, don't answer that. Don't answer and‒ I don't need you to come here. I need you to meet up with me in Beacon Hills, over the break. And to help me."

"Trouble back home?" 'Back home' means his Dad, and Mrs McCall, and the parents of Lydia, of Danny‒ And of Erica and Boyd, too. It means Derek. Breathing starts coming harder to Stiles when he thinks that something might have happened to any of them. He clutches the phone as hard as he can, the edge of it digging into his palm. "Is everybody okay, Lydia?"

There is a long stretch of silence, filled just with Stiles' heart beating against his ribcage with bruising strength and Lydia's breathing, harsh but deep and even. Stiles is impatient, always has been, and he wants to ask another question, or a hundred of them, but the fragility of Lydia's voice helps him keep the inquisitive words to himself. He leans against the wall of the staircase, and then slides down to sit on a step, before Lydia finally says, "I'm not okay."

Stiles is good with words, but right now, he's at a loss for them. He’s assumed ‒ all of them had assumed ‒ that since Lydia's acting like she's fine now, she must be fine. But really, she's probably just as fine as Stiles is: simply better at hiding all the things that are fractured in her. There are four humans in the pack now: Lydia, Danny, Allison, and Stiles; but Stiles feels closer to Lydia than the other two, even if in theory, he's spent the least amount of time with her. Stiles decided it's because he just _feels_ the most for Lydia, but maybe they are more similar than he thought? It's a nice thought. Less‒ lonely.

"Lydia‒" he tries, hoping that inspiration will come from saying her name out loud. He wants to ask 'why', but at the same time he both doesn't want to know and thinks he already does.

"Do you want to help me get better?" Lydia asks. Traces of her usual demeanour sneak back into her tone.

"Of course I do. Just tell me what do you want me to help you with. Something in Beacon Hills? Something that you just found out about? Give me more info to work with here."

"Maybe not 'just', but first I had to make sure‒" she trails off. "If I told you that I have a way to get rid of Peter, once and for all, what would you say?"

" _How?_ "

"I can't explain it over the phone." Now Lydia sounds exasperated with him, and that's oddly comforting. At least she's being herself. "All you need to know is that I can, and I will, and you're either with me or not, but if you tell anybody, especially Derek, I will eviscerate you."

"Wait, okay, no need to get defensive! I won't tell Derek. And‒ Look, I know they all just, uh, magically forgot what he did. But I didn't, okay? To you, and to Derek's family, and hell, to Scott. Even to me. I remember all that stuff. I have _nightmares_ about that stuff. I know Derek thinks he needs Peter, and all that jazz, but I think Peter is just dragging him into something."

"You think a lot about those things," Lydia muses. "And yes, there's something brewing. _Look_. There's a not-witch here, just like Deaton, and she knows things. She's been telling me things. I have to get going now, I'm meeting Danny in a few minutes, so answer me now. Yes or no, in or out?"

Stiles takes a deep breath, thinks about calling Scott, or Derek. Thinks about buying himself more time. "Yes," he says. "In. I'm in. I'll help you."

Lydia's sigh of relief is audible even over the phone. "Good," she says curtly. "Good. I'll see you on Christmas, then."

With that, she hangs up, and Stiles is left staring at the cell phone in his hand like it will give him more answers than Lydia did. He doesn't call Scott, or Derek. He doesn't call anybody, in the end. He keeps his word, but the dark idea has been planted in his head, and now it's taking shape, and growing. Stiles sets his jaw.

Lydia isn't okay, and neither is he. None of them are.


	4. Chapter Three

Melissa McCall doesn’t even need to bother calling Derek to tell him when Scott's going to be home. Derek knows.

Derek knows, because he can sense his pack coming near, all of them gathering home once more. Not coming to him, to the Hale house ‒ which is cold, and more inhabitable in the winter than at all other times ‒ but to their own respective families. Apart from Isaac, for whom he's the only family.

But they are in town, and Derek can sense them - their scents are getting thicker, but also something else, that he doesn't even have a name for yet, a presence at the back of his mind ‒ and they are well, which is enough for Derek. He can sense them with the same instinct that told him that his family, his pack _isn't_ alright. That made him experience their deaths as his own, like parts of him rotting away as if he were a leper. Pack is almost like a physical extension of his own body for Derek. It was that way even when he wasn't an alpha, but now the feeling is all the stronger. That's why an alpha can turn into an omega so easily: with losing pack, one almost always loses control. That's why Laura and he clung to each other. That's why Derek clings to Peter.

And now he's got a new pack, and they are here. Logically speaking, Derek knew they would be back. They have people to get back to. But for how long? At some point the gravity will shift for them, and they will find themselves building something new in the cities they inhabit now. They will meet new people, and get jobs. Fall in love, and build new families. No wonder: Beacon Hills must seem like a place of nightmares to them.

For now, they are here, and they still come to him. Or, more accurately, they all gather in one place, thought that place isn't the Hale house.

Derek ushers Isaac ‒ even more quiet than usual, and very reluctant to answer any of Derek's awkwardly parental questions about college ‒ into the Camaro, and drives them both to the McCalls'. Peter chose to take his own car, and Derek watches him the whole time in the rear-view mirror.

They aren't the last ones to arrive. Derek is meticulously punctual, which apparently can't be said about Stiles and Lydia. He could bet that the only reason why Jackson is already in the kitchen, leaning against the counter with a bitchy expression that serves to conceal a smile fighting its way to the surface, is that Danny was the one to drive. Danny is talking to Scott, something about Danny's roommate, and Isaac makes a beeline for them as soon as they enter the kitchen. Allison is seated two chairs over from Scott, alternating between looking at him very pointedly and just as pointedly _not_ looking. Derek would like to stay in the doorway, but Peter is just behind him, and Derek still isn't fine with turning his back on him, so he pulls out a chair for himself and takes a seat.

The adult members of the pack ‒ well, more adult, since his werewolves and humans aren't kids anymore ‒ are conspicuously absent.

Allison gives him a small, very uncertain smile, and Danny turns away from his conversation with Scott to ask, "And how were things here?" In a few short minutes they're all in a discussion about the relative, _suspicious_ peace of Beacon Hills, and about the werewolf communities in the towns where they study.

"We know for sure about Tyler and Maria, they live on the campus. We've never met their alpha," Scott says. Derek's already heard Isaac mentioning them, but he doesn't interrupt Scott now. "They're both pretty okay, though."

"I think the alpha is Maria's father," Isaac says. There's some new, unpleasantly hollow quality to his voice that Derek should investigate. He doesn't know what happened in their lives, and that knowledge strikes him now, as he watches his pack. It's been just months, an amount of time that shouldn't make much of a difference, but enough time to change them. How have they changed? is the question that bugs Derek the most now. Much more than the topic at hand, but he pretends to listen anyway.

Outside the kitchen window, there is the sound of car stopping in the driveway, and Isaac trails off, listening. Derek can distinctly hear three pairs of door slamming, when there are just two people missing from the table: Lydia and Stiles. The others seem confused enough, too, so he assumes that this isn't something only he hasn't been informed about. He doesn't ask, because the door opens, and then there are steps and voices in the corridor, clear but occupied with meaningless chatter.

Stiles is the first one to barrel into the kitchen, and he instantly goes into loud, awkward-to-watch greetings rituals with Scott. Lydia walks in after him, collected and purely _herself_ in a way that Derek hasn't seen in a while. She has another girl trailing behind her, one that Derek doesn't know, and he narrows his eyes at her. All three of them have to push past Peter, who eyes them with a vague smirk. Neither Stiles nor Lydia look at him, like he's not even there, but the girl side-eyes him before she follows Lydia all the way to the furthest corner of the kitchen. Derek expected the pack to bring someone new in, sooner or later, but not quite yet. And definitely not without consulting him first.

"Who's that?" he asks, and Lydia rolls her eyes.

"Nice to see you, too," she monotones, like she's reciting the overly-used line.

"And nice to see that you haven't lost any of your charm," Stiles adds. "And _that's_ Amelia. Amelia is Lydia's roommate."

The room is filled with the smell of pack, mixing into something comforting, but it's streaked with the wrongness of a stranger. At first Derek thinks it's just that, the fact that there is someone here who shouldn't be, someone trespassing, but then he starts thinking that there is maybe something off about the girl in general. He ends up thinking that maybe he wants something to be off. He's craving some new crisis.

"You can carry on," Amelia says in a mellow voice. She's twisting her hands in the long sleeves of her sweater. "I'm in the know. About werewolves, that is."

Scott starts talking to Stiles, like that settles it. They reverse back into being annoying high-schoolers in five short minutes, and the rest of the pack with them. Derek relaxes. However they may aggravate him, they are still his pack, and their very presence makes a world of difference to Derek's nerves. Soon they run out of more 'official' topics, or anything even remotely pack-related, and they move to the living room, where they claim the couch, armchairs, and even the floor; the McCall house is still too small to contain them all, even if it beats the Hale house by having all the walls in place.

Later in the afternoon Danny and Lydia order pizza in ungodly amounts, because the werewolves still aren't over their terrible eating habits, and Stiles could easily compete with them in that category. Peter makes himself sparse about that time; he stuck around too long anyway. Melissa comes home at the same time that the pizza delivery guy does, and she and John help the boy carry all the pizza boxes inside.

Melissa stops near the coffee table, partially obscuring the view of the TV to more or less everybody, and crosses her arms. "You must be really bored. You haven't been back for even one full day and you're already squatting in my living room."

"Nothing better to do around here," Stile says, and Melissa sighs at him.

"Since you've been in kindergarten, from what I remember."

"Well," John says hoarsely, clapping his hands. He glances at Amelia, confusion written all over his face, but doesn't venture to make a comment. "Then you'll be interested to see this." He reaches into the inside pocket of his jacket and produces a handful of photographs. Derek knows that they come from a crime scene even before John throws them onto the coffee table, letting them slide and scatter across the slick surface.

Derek rocks forward from his place on the couch, and the others gather around, curiosity and worry emanating from them clearly even to someone with human senses.

The pictures aren't even anything particularly gory or bad. If anything, they're mostly baffling, but at the same time eerily familiar: a circle drawn in blood, somewhere in the woods, with the blood coming most likely from the dead rabbits piled in the middle of it, their eyes glassy; a desecrated grave on the local cemetery ("Nothing was dug out," John says. "The hole doesn't even reach the coffin."); a minor act of vandalism - someone broke into the high school's chemistry lab.

"So, what do you say, Derek?" John asks. "A werewolf?"

"This doesn't add up." Derek straightens back up, running a hand over his face. "This doesn't make sense for a werewolf. That makes you think that it's not just some pesky human thing?"

"Call it a hunch," John says, "but it's never a human thing."

Derek has to admit John's right. The worst possible scenario has only rarely untrue for them before.

"Maybe it's your Satan-worshiping roommate?" Scott suggests, nudging Danny in the arm. Danny doesn't look amused.

"I'm back for seven hours," Jackson says, pointedly looking at his expensive watch, "and you're already dragging me back into this. Nice. Really nice."

"No one's dragging you into anything," Stiles snaps at him. "It's your territory. You're supposed to protect it." Sometimes the humans of the pack act far more like werewolves than the werewolves do. Derek wouldn't call what he's feeling right now _affection_ for them, but definitely some kind of pride. They understand, even Jackson, who looks sufficiently chastised.

Lydia is giving Jackson one of her cold, unimpressed looks, only further proving to Derek that apparently any romantic relationships within the pack are doomed. The last time he cared enough to pay any attention to their on-going drama, they seemed to be madly in love. Now, though, Jackson responds with his own glare, and Lydia turns away from him, ostensibly grabbing a piece of pizza for herself. By looking at her, Derek catches sight of Amelia. Her eyes are fixed on the photos with unblinking intensity.

"Something you recognize?" John asks when she continues that for a prolonged stretch of time.

Amelia doesn't react until Lydia clears her throat. "Not exactly," she says. "This isn't anything the coven from our college would even consider, but‒ It's still a sort of‒ I don't know. Honestly."

"You have a _coven_?" Scott asks excitedly.

"We don't have anything," Lydia says, annoyed. "There just is a coven on campus. I went to check it out, but it turned out to be ridiculous. Amelia used to be a part, once. She went through a phase," she adds, and maybe it's an inside joke, because they both smile. It's pale, but there.

"A witch, then?" Derek asks, and they shake their heads in that same unnatural synchrony.

John exhales loudly, making Derek look back at him. He's wearing his 'I don't want to know the details' face.

"I'm really not," Amelia says. Derek feels like questioning her further, because this is too much for a coincidence: Lydia brings her in-the-know friend to Beacon Hills, and on the same day, traces of witch activity appear turn up around the town. He doesn't say it out loud, though, because his suspicions are one thing, and what his senses are telling him is something else entirely. Amelia doesn't smell of magic ‒ not like Deaton does, and not even like Peter does, with the residual traces of it still around him ‒ but she doesn't smell exactly human, either. Neither does Lydia, so Derek refuses to touch this topic.

"Fine," Derek says, as if he's agreeing to let it go. "Scott and I will go into the woods and see if there are any traces John might have missed. Isaac, Lydia‒ and Stiles, you will go to the school. Jackson, Danny: the cemetery."

They start scrambling to their feet without much complaining, and Derek relishes in that bit of power he still has, and in their knee-jerk reflexes to obey his orders. It takes him a second or two after he's standing, too, to realize that there is one more person who hasn't said a word, but is still here, and he doesn't mean the trespasser that is Amelia. No, he means Allison, a part of his pack, who looks uncomfortable and fidgety on the couch, with her hands trapped between her knees.

She catches his eyes when he looks at her, and her face goes guarder. "I'll tell Dad what's going on."

"Yeah," Derek says. He's still not much of an alpha when it comes to those things. He doesn't know what he should say Allison to make it better, or how to make her and Scott see that the world is still turning, even without their epic love story still going on. Or how to tell Jackson and Lydia that it they are allowed to talk to each other. Or how to even touch the time bomb that is whatever went down between Isaac and Scott, and that is making them both smell of misery and longing. Or how to tell any of them that they should start acting like a pack, really.

But they listen to him, and they go, and since this is all Derek is likely to get from them, he's grateful.

***

Isaac is probably the one who understand the most about what being a werewolf means. He's the only one in the pack for whom the Bite was a conscious choice, and the only one who doesn't regret it. The only one apart from Jackson, but who understands Jackson? Isaac tried. He's really concerned with not being a disappointment to another parental figure in his life, namely Derek, and with being the best he can at this whole pack thing, but he messed that up already, didn't he? He really screwed things up with Scott, and before that, he pretty much ignored the entire pack in favour of obsessing over Scott.

So now he pays extra attention, and he notices things. It's amazing how much space in his head he's got when he's actively trying not to think about Scott; Scott who still speaks to him, acts like they're friends, and won't look him in the eye, ever. And he even makes active attempts at not staying in the same room as Isaac when it's just the two of them. It would be impressive, what with the fact that they still share a dorm room, if it didn't sting so much.

Isaac watches the pack carefully now that they're all in one place again, and he makes some curious observations.

He thinks Derek knows. Of course Derek is even worse at expressing his feelings than Isaac is, because Isaac can at least force them out in short outbursts of words on paper. Still, Derek has this particular expression on his face, the 'I know that you're all being idiots' scowl, and it deepens when he looks at Lydia, Jackson, Allison, Scott, or him. Isaac doesn't know how he feels about the fact that apparently now he's part of the group of romantically entangled members of the pack that give Derek stress-induced headaches. Annoyed, probably. And angry. And giddy, because even though Scott refuses to acknowledge Isaac's feeling, Derek senses them as true through the alpha bond. It didn't come in time, but it's still the reaffirmation he yearned for.

It's true, he thinks. It's painful, and tainted, and hopeless, but it's true. Isaac finally has something that is real.

And then there is the trio that Isaac gets in the car and drives to the school with: Lydia, Stiles, and Amelia. There is something going on there so obviously that Isaac can't imagine how the rest of the pack can be self-centred enough not to notice the silent communication and sneaky looks. He can't tell what's this about, but there for sure _is_ something.

Then again, who is he to act judgmental at the pack living in their own heads, when this is exactly what he's been doing. By all probability, Isaac isn't the only one who's in love. And he certainly isn't the only one who is young, and just plain stupid when it comes to the crash course in semi-adult life.

He wants to just ask, break the silence in the car and make things right between them by acting as if they are right. But the question gets stopped in his throat, because he hasn't spoken to any of them in some five months, and maybe they don't care about being pack as much as he does. Maybe it means less to them, and that's why they formed this secret sub-group, and around a girl who isn't even _in_ the pack, too.

Lydia pulls up in the empty school parking lot. Everybody's on the winter break, which is for the best, but at the same time makes them creeping around all the more suspicious. Still, they check the door, but not the main one. It's locked, so Isaac tears the door handle along with the lock, and Stile shakes his head at him. The alarm is still dismantled after the last break-in, it would seem.

"Werewolf subtlety, man," he says fondly, and Isaac can bet everything he owns ‒ which is pretty much nothing ‒ that he's thinking back on some adventure with Scott, when it was just the two of them, with the occasional company of Allison.

Isaac doesn't think Stiles likes him very much. Stiles probably thinks he stole Scott away from him, in even more ways that Allison did previously, because Isaac took the spot that was solely Stiles' before, unreachable to anyone else. He's wrong; there's no one who can take up the place that Stiles occupies in Scott's life. Not that Isaac would even like to try ‒ Stiles is practically an extension of Scott, his brother, and his pack in ways that none of them will ever be.

"This is where you used to go to school?" Amelia asks. She's looking around curiously, not at all worried by the breaking and entering. If Isaac hasn't believed that she knows about werewolves, that would convince him. Disregard for the law comes with the territory. When he was human, Isaac would never think about doing any of the things that now come naturally to him.

In hindsight, maybe he should be worried.

"Yes," Lydia says. "This is where we got attacked by Peter. Multiple times. And where he tried to kill me," she adds, looking pointedly at Isaac, who doesn't even have the courtesy to look sheepish.

"We thought you were the kanima."

"You were high on the change, and trigger-happy," Lydia says haughtily. She trips over the last word, though, and Isaac goes quiet, too. There is a long moment when they very pointedly not mention Boyd and Erica, and then Stiles tries to rescue them all from going down that road (and possibly from getting any sort of closure about talking about it, because the timing isn't right, it's never right) by saying, "Lots of fond memories."

"I bet," Amelia hums, just as they turn the corridor leading to the chemistry classroom.

The locks here haven't been changed yet, and it takes just one look to know that whoever did this had a bit more strength than the regular human. Lydia pushes the door open decisively, and leads them inside. Isaac stops in the middle of the classroom, trying to filter through the smells of dozens of teenagers, all unfamiliar. It's a bit much at first, and he takes his time, pacing and then approaching the supply room.

The stench of chemicals hurts his nose, and he takes shallow breaths, little sniffs and huffs. He doesn't know what things are missing, but he knows what's here that shouldn't be.

"Harris," he says, untangling the specific smells.

"That's the Chemistry teacher," Stiles explains for Amelia's benefit. "Reasonable enough, that's his Lab."

"And‒ Ms Morell?"

"Who's that?" Amelia asks, leaning in, as if she's able to smell the same things Isaac does, if she just tries hard enough.

Stiles furrows his brow, and Lydia starts looking fidgety. "The school counsellor," Stiles says. "And kind of‒ I don't know. I think she may be the same as Deaton. She never really talked about it, though."

"I see," Amelia says slowly. She turns her eyes to Isaac, and maybe his senses have been momentarily altered by the chemicals and the wrongness of the situation, but she smells of sweet decay. Just slightly, not even like someone who had a passing contact with a corpse - just the vaguest tinge of death to her. "And who else?" she asks.

Isaac doesn't even ask how she knows that there _is_ someone else. He just answers her, but looking at Lydia. "Peter."

She flinches, but apart from that, doesn't seem surprised in the slightest. That, more than anything else up until that point, tells Isaac that something is going on here. Something bigger, that nobody seemed fit to mention to him. He knows, because when Stiles lays a tentative hand on her arm, she doesn't shake him off like she always does; because Amelia's eyes narrow in a way that is far too malicious for her doll-like frame.

No surprise. They expected that.

"Okay," Isaac says. "Okay. Are you going to tell me what's going on here?"

They look at each other, and Isaac swallows down the feeling of being excluded with just the slightest twitch in his jaw. The dynamics suggest that Lydia is the one making decisions here, so once more, he concentrates on her. The one to give him an almost explanation, however, is Amelia. "It means that he's moving quicker than we expected him to. This is bad."

The last part is very unnecessary. Isaac figured this all on his own: Peter Hale doing anything behind their backs, especially with someone apparently mixed in magic? Never a good sign. "You know what he's going to do?" he asks.

"No," Amelia admits. "No. Some sort of counter-measure against what we want to do. It's hard to predict those things, and I'm really not a witch. How could I know."

They fall silent after that, not looking at each other or at anything specific in the classroom. Isaac's throat keeps working, but he can't swallow the worry. About the pack, about _Scott._ About them, here, in this room. They were safe for too long, it would seem.

The sound of Stiles' phone startles them all, including Isaac, who really shouldn't be caught off guard by something so mundane. Stiles almost drops the mobile in his haste to answer the call, and Isaac listens to Derek barking orders: "Come to the house. Now."

Moving is better, because moving means they're actually doing something, so they walk briskly to the car. No words are exchanged, but Stiles' hand never wanders far from Lydia's arm, or her back, and Amelia keeps watching Lydia with worry written all over her face. Lydia, for her part, floats somewhere between stricken with fear and darkly determined. When she's like that, she's actually a bit scary.

It's a good thing that they have the Sheriff on their side, because even without the broken lock they left at the school, they still manage to break a bunch of speeding laws. Lydia's car isn't made for driving off-roads, but she pushes it to its limits anyway, and Isaac's teeth chatter on the bumpy forest road leading to the Hale house. He tells himself that this is the only reason why.

The rest of the pack were closer, so they're already inside when Isaac, Stiles, Lydia, and Amelia make their way into the wreckage of what once was the living room. Derek is in his commanding mode, standing stiffly, with his legs slightly apart, like he thinks he'll have to pounce any moment. His head snaps to the entrance when he hears them, and he's barely controlling the shift. For just a fraction of a second, his eyes flash red.

"Peter," Isaac says simply, and Derek nods jerkily.

"And in the cemetery," Jackson agrees. Lydia does a strange little half-dance on her tiptoes, hesitating between staying out and walking forward. Finally he makes a choice, and goes to stand next to Jackson, who doesn't even try to conceal his surprise mixed with worry. Whatever bad has happened between them, it's forgotten, because he puts an arm around her, and she pushes closer, taking all the comfort he offers.

Isaac's eyes flicker to Scott, and Scott is already looking at him. Then he turns his head away very deliberately, just like Allison does when she catches _him_ looking in turn. She's not here now, Isaac notices. It's possible nobody thought to call her.

"And Ms Morell," Stiles adds, and there is nodding again. The air tastes like tension, even stronger than it tastes like ash, and frost. Isaac thinks, completely not on the topic, that the humans must be cold. The chill is creeping even into his bones, but then again, it may be a very different kind of chill.

"We need to find Peter," Derek says. It's redundant, but nobody calls him on it. They all know it, but looking for Peter, especially when he doesn't want to be found, is a mission without much hope for success.

In the end, Isaac is the one who offers to go to Allison and tell her what happened. He catches the startled expression on Scott's face, and it makes the coldness even more unbearable. Scott thinks that Isaac is pesky enough, maybe even cruel enough to want to cut Allison away just because he wants Scott for himself.

They start searching for Peter, but it's like the earth has swallowed him. Since he already hid underground once, it wouldn't be such a surprise.

They also try to figure out what he and Ms Morell may need from what they stole: the rabbits' lives, the unknown chemicals, the grave dirt. Isaac doesn't know anything about those things, but he isn't blind. The smell of decay grows stronger around town.

***

They time it so that they don't run into Derek, who has lost some of his inability to ask people for help. Well, asking is still beyond the realm of possibility, but at least somewhere along the way he recognized stating that he may require assistance at some point is an option at all. Stiles appreciates Derek's growth as a person, because it makes him a better alpha; just not right now, not with them almost tripping over him everywhere they go.

Conspiracy is harder when you conspire maybe not against, but still despite the people you care for, it turns out.

"Look, I don't think Derek's Peter's number one fan, either," Stiles says when they finally leave the Hale house and gather in Stiles' living room. "I mean, he didn't jump to his defence or anything, he just assumed that Peter going missing like that equals Peter being a creeper with some dark plan. And he figured that you'll need werewolf supervision."

Isaac makes a noise from the couch, where he's seated with Amelia. It could be agreement, or indignation. Isaac is good at those ambiguous sounds. And looks, as the matter of fact, and even words. He just came back from Allison's house. Stiles can't really make any assumptions here, but he thinks that maybe he wanted to make Allison feel lees like an intruder by going to talk to her personally, instead of letting her hear everything from Derek and Chris, like she's just an afterthought to her Dad.

"Derek took Peter back when he crawled out of that hole in the floorboards," Lydia says. "He should have killed him, but instead he kept him around. He was prepared, because he expected that to happen. He expected it, but he still‒ He went to the Argents', didn't he? To work on a plan?"

And yeah, Stiles is still a little bitter about that, to be honest. Nobody makes better plans than he does, he thinks, ever though Chris Argent has experience he's lacking. It's experience he gained working against them, so, mixed feelings.

"We should use the time to talk to Deaton," Stiles decides. "He knows more about those things that we do‒" He looks uncertainly at Amelia, but she's busy tinkering with her phone. It's suspiciously modern in comparison to her grandma outfits. "And he definitely knows more about Ms Morell. Maybe he can give us some pointers as to what she's doing _with Peter._ "

"He's good at charming people into giving him what he wants," Lydia says darkly.

Isaac is silent, probably trying to guess what's going on here. They told him as much as they had to, that is that they want Peter to go down, but even within this very room, different people know different versions of _how_ exactly. Stiles, for example, is the only one who knows that Lydia craves revenge, and by that she means the bloodiest type, not just what Amelia thinks they are doing ‒ putting Peter back in his grave, and without a plan 'b' for him, this time. Stiles isn't exactly sure what's the difference between killing him and doing that for Amelia, but he can't ask without giving Lydia away.

"The ritual was performed on the Worm Moon," Amelia says suddenly, mostly to the phone in her lap. "He will want to close the passage, so that nobody can use it to send him back."

"Do you know when?" Lydia asks. Stiles should be surprised at how matter-of-fact she is with all of that now. Mostly he's glad, because she seems calm, even if it comes from the fact that she's at peace with herself over committing murder.

"On the last day of the year. Closure," Amelia explains. "That would explain the graveyard dirt, and all the other things. They're all about ending things, and I'm betting this Ms Morell of yours needed the chemicals for the spell. It's a different kind of magic, what she's using, more earth-bound, but I think I understand enough of it."

"On the last day of the year," Lydia echoes. "That's in ten days."

"I haven't thought about him making the first move," Amelia says, guiltily. "It was supposed to happen on our terms, I thought‒ I think I assumed that if he hasn't done anything about this before, he won't now."

"That's fine," Lydia says. "I work better under pressure and with a deadline, anyway. I'm efficient like that."

"Okay," Isaac says very slowly, looking from Lydia to Stiles and back, question written all over his face. "Is anybody going to explain all of this to me?"

Lydia's eyes snap to him. "Later," she says. "You don't have to go with us, if you don't want to, but I'll have to ask you to not say anything to Derek."

Isaac nods, slowly. They gather their jackets and head out again, for Deaton’s office this time. Stiles thinks that for how small Beacon Hills is, it’s a miracle that they don’t keep stumbling into each other with the other part of the pack. Another one of those mysteries, he supposes, just like nobody noticing the growing population of werewolves back when.

Deaton isn’t in the office. Stiles remembers the times when he used to half-assume that Deaton just lives there and will be available for their every beck and call. Now Stiles knows that he has a personal life, whatever that is.

Only it's not that simple, because Deaton isn't there, but the doors are open. They all learned the hard way that this is never a good sign, but they shuffle inside the office nevertheless, past the suspicious doors and into the back room, looking around for anything unusual. The caged animals react to Isaac, especially the cats: they snarl and hiss' Isaac ignores them. Stiles notices that when Amelia passes the cages, the animals react, too, though a lot less violently. They shy away, and try to keep close to the back walls of the cages. Lydia notices, too, and her lips go a little thinner.

They finally find something in the backroom, usually used for surgery. Well, someone, really. Morell is there, leaning against the shiny steel table. She looks sharp and composed, just like she did in high school. She isn't armed, but she is a witch, so it doesn't mean anything.

"Where's Deaton?" Isaac asks. During the last holidays, he started helping out at the animal clinic alongside Scott, and he must've becomes as protective of his boss as him. "What have you done to him?"

"Why do you assume I did anything?" Morell asks back. Her voice is calm and soothing. Stiles briefly thinks back to their counselling sessions. "You are sued to thinking in some very straightforward terms, and at the same time you consider yourselves good werewolves. You should try to consider that."

"And you're a good witch?" Lydia asks, almost taunts. "Helping out a murderer?"

Morell shakes her head minutely. "You're looking at it from the wrong angle, Lydia. Do you even realize what's going on here? Can you tell what sort of attention you're drawing towards Beacon Hills?" Her eyes shift to Amelia, and for the first time, something in her face shifts. Stiles can't exactly read her expression, but it's not pleased. "Ask your friend."

Amelia startles visibly when Lydia looks at her. "You said you told me everything," Lydia says with a trace of accusation.

"I did. It's just that I didn't assume the worst."

"That shows lacking planning skills," Ms Morell says. "A good strategist thinks of every eventuality. And the eventuality we are facing here is that the longer the passage beneath the Hale house stays open, the more attention it will draw. Soon there will be others coming here. You must have tried to guess why so much is going on in such a small town. You have your answer now. It won't stop and calm down until the passage gets closed. And to close it, you have to carry the spell all the way through. That's what I'm trying to do."

"That's what we want to do," Amelia says. "The only difference is, we want Peter on the other side of that door when it happens."

Stiles knows Lydia well, so he notices the very moment when Lydia makes a decision. Her green eyes go harder, more guarded, and she exhales sharply. She's long time past being a passive victim, and Stiles knows it's good for her. What he doesn't know is whether the way in which Lydia chose to take her life into her own hand won't hurt her even more. At least the choice is hers to make.

"It's too late to stop the spell anyway," Ms Morell says. "Everything is in its place. There is just one thing to be done, and then all of this will be over."

"One more thing," Lydia echoes. "And what's that?"

This time both Ms Morell and Amelia answer her almost at the same time; they are in agreement for once. "You."

"And you knew it, Amelia," Lydia says coolly. "You told me you won't lie to me."

"I never‒ This seems like the logical conclusion to the spell, but I figured it out earlier on, when we were discussing the spell. I'm sorry, I didn't want to worry you."

"Worry me, really. You knew that the only reason why I agreed to listen to you was because you promised to never lie to me." Amelia opens her mouth to make more excuses, but Lydia is through with listening to those. She turns to Ms Morell again, and asks, "And what would you need me to do?"

Stiles doesn't know everything about what transpired between Lydia and Peter, but he knows enough. He knows enough to figure out that Lydia must want her revenge for reasons a lot more complicated than he previously suspected. She swallows down the fear, and the trauma, and doesn't even flinch when Ms Morell says, "You just need to be there. Lucid this time, since you will go wilfully.  We will need Derek, too." It's Stiles who startles, but Ms Morell just pushes on, "Peter already has him."

Isaac snarls, his eyes flashing gold, and Ms Morell raises her hand. Stiles isn't sure if it's supposed to be a placating gesture, or a preamble to weaving a spell. He clutches at Isaac's arm just in case. He couldn't possibly stop Isaac if he tries to attack Ms Morell, but the familiar touch, touch of the pack, grounds Isaac.

Peter has Derek. Stiles takes a deep breath, as if in preparation for taking a dive, or maybe breaking into run.

"And what will happen to Peter once he's got what he wants?" Lydia asks. "Is he planning on killing Derek and becoming the Alpha again?"

Isaac's snarling turns into open growling, and he positively vibrates under Stiles' touch. Stiles doesn't blame him - he's shaking, too, and it's only partially from fear. Ms Morell shakes her head. "The unfinished spell keeps Peter from leaving Beacon Hills. Do you think he wants to stay here? With a pack that doesn't provide him with what a pack should? He will leave."

"Or that's what he told you," Stiles says. "Peter is great at deception."

Ms Morell smiles, slow and disturbingly kind. "And do you think I went so far without knowing when somebody's trying to lie to me?"

"Fine," Lydia says. "Fine. I'll go with you."

"What?" Stiles sputters out. "No! That's the worst idea I've ever heard." He thinks about that for a second. "Alright, this is one of the worst ideas I've ever heard."

"Stiles," Lydia says, narrowing her eyes at him. "You promised to help me, not to stand in my way."

"Good choice." Ms Morell nods her head. "And you will do best  to stay away from the Hale house tonight."

Amelia tries to protest, and stop Lydia with a hand on her arm, but Lydia swaps her away angrily and follows Ms Morell out of the room.


	5. Chapter Four

The ropes must be laced with wolfsbane in some way, maybe wet with water mixed with aconite, Lydia thinks. That's what they did that one time they had to restrain a werewolf from the alpha pack. Lydia can't smell wolfsbane like the werewolves can, but it's easy enough to figure out from looking at Derek. He's unconscious, ghastly pale and sweaty, spread on the Hale house floor. His eyes are closed, with his eyelids fluttering. He looks almost like the last time, like he's having feverish nightmares.

Lydia keeps looking at him so that she doesn't have to look at Peter. She's not scared ‒ if anything, she's calm and collected, and maybe just that bit impatient ‒ but seeing Peter makes her think back to the time when she was, and the echo of fear turns into bitter shame. Ms Morell goes to stand next to Peter, over a hole in the floorboards. Lydia tries to ignore this, too, but it's not easy. Here it is, in the middle of the barely-liveable room: a grave without its occupant.

"We're happy you could join us," Peter says. Lydia's eyes snap to him despite her best efforts, and Peter is doing his cold-eyes smirk-leer that always makes her insides feel like snakes.

Ms Morell drops to one knee and starts going through her bag. She takes out a few jars filled with something dark and thick, and puts them down next to the hole. She keeps tinkering with them, opening a few and peering inside. Lydia assumes Ms Morell is going to paint some mystical circles and symbols with them. It wasn't necessary the last time, but apparently is now.

"And you swear to leave as soon as this is done?" Lydia asks, gesturing vaguely to Derek, the jars, Ms Morell.

"If you will still want me gone, Lydia, then of course."

Lydia doesn't answer him. She wants him gone now, and she's sure this will never change. The fewer words they exchange, the happier she will be. "What do I do?" Lydia asks Ms Morell instead.

"The same thing you did the last time, really. Don't worry about it," Ms Morell says. She plucks a lighter out of her bag, too, and Lydia gives a start when she sets the insides of the first jar on fire. Lydia has a feeling they shouldn't be flammable, but Ms Morell turns one jar after the next into bright blue lanterns. The light is strange and makes them all cast long, spidery shadows. Derek, Peter, and Ms Morell all look like animated corpses in the unearthly glow. Lydia still refuses to be scared.

Despite what Ms Morell said, it's not like the last time. If anything, it's just the opposite. Peter hauls Derek up by his arm, and drags his unconscious body across the floor. The sound of skin slithering over wood adds to the unpleasant atmosphere. And then Peter gives one last shove, and Derek falls into the hole in a graceless pile of limbs. If he were awake, he wouldn't be able to move. Just like in an actual coffin, Lydia thinks, and now she can't help the shiver that runs down her spine.

Lydia would prefer for Derek not to be here. He's a vital part of the spell ‒ whichever way Lydia is going to take it ‒ but he's here without his consent. This part shouldn't be repeated, but it's necessary. Lydia has to be selfish in this, and can't think about anybody else's feelings, even her alpha's.

Peter kneels down next to Derek, shifting the jars around to have enough space to sit comfortably. Then he lies down, and Lydia is left looking down at him. Peter should appear vulnerable in this positions, but somehow he still emanates control. Even though Lydia didn't mean him back when he was the alpha, but she can only imagine how charismatic he must've been. Creepy and evil, yes, but charismatic.

"Take their hands," Ms Morell instructs. She's circling Lydia with a calculating expression. "You need to borrow some more power from Derek and then close the connection. You remember how."

Lydia nods. She remembers, even if it took her over a year to regain all her memories. She also knows how to modify the spell to her needs. Amelia provided her with bits and pieces of insight, and filled in the missing parts with her and Stiles' research. "I do. It's about balancing this."

She sits down, far enough that she doesn't brush against Peter any more than she absolutely needs to. His blue eyes follow her away, making her feel almost filthy.

"Balance of power, yes," Ms Morell agrees. "That's a tricky thing, because in truth there really is no balance. It all has to be constantly in move. That's how progress happens."

Leaning forward to snatch Peter's hand in hers, Lydia hesitates for just the shortest moment. She very pointedly refuses making eye-contact with Ms Morell, because she has a sinking feeling that her old guidance counsellor knows what she's planning on doing. She doesn't stop her, though, and Lydia takes a calming breath, and twists uncomfortably, reaching for Derek's hand. She twines her fingers through his. Derek's hand is lifeless and chilly-clamp, and Lydia ignores the uncomfortable mixture of guilt and worry. She can’t, can't, can't think about it now.

And this is it. This is the moment when she can repay Peter. There is no hesitancy in her when she reaches inside herself for the power that Peter himself gave her.

Peter's hand twitch in hers, and Lydia can pinpoint the moment when he realizes something is wrong, but the spell is already underwent. Lydia tightens her fingers around Peter. She feels cold, and blood is rushing in her ears, but she doesn't stop. The world around her is floating away, and when she hears some muffled voices, she can't even understand them.

Someone catches her from behind and grads her up and back, away from Peter. She tries to wriggle away, and then trashes in the strong hold of the arm around her middle. Her hands reach out, but Derek and Peter slip away from her. Lydia shrieks and kicks, and manages to connect the hill of her shoe with a shin.

"Lydia," Scott grunts on a sharp exhale of air. "Hey, calm down. I've got you, you're fine now."

She's everything but fine. For a moment Lydia can't tell where she is, and if she's anything more than a spell put into corporeal body. She's so focused on channelling the magic, being dragged away from where the ritual is happening causes her almost physical pain. Something is being torn out of her veins, her palms smart like she burned them, and Lydia gasps painfully through her constricted throat.

Lydia wants to explain to Scott that he isn't saving her, just the opposite, but she can't stop herself from trying to bite Scott, or scratch at his forearms. There must be something else to her right now, something not entirely human, because she manages to land an elbow to Scott's ‒ to a werewolf's ‒ stomach, and his grip loosens.

The others are here, too: Jackson and Allison, working on getting Derek out of the grave; Isaac restraining Ms Morell much like Scott was restraining Lydia; Stiles and Danny both shuffling helplessly over the burning jars. Amelia is hovering in the doorway with an unreadable expression, and her eyes follow Lydia as she makes a dive for Peter. Scott catches her again, spins her around so that she can't possibly reach the ground with her legs and isn't facing Peter anymore.

"You're safe now, Lydia, so snap out of this," Scott says desperately.

Ms Morell laughs, short and sharp. It doesn't fit her at all. "She isn't distressed," she says when Isaac looks at her, equal parts confused and disturbed. "She just nearly managed to kill Peter, and she's sad that you stopped her."

Scott does let go of Lydia then, and she doesn't expect that, so she drops to the floor gracelessly.

***

In a moment of clarity, Stiles understands: it's not about vengeance for Lydia, it's about healing.

He puts a jar back on the floor from where he's been holding it to his face, trying to peer inside, and stares at Lydia instead. Lydia's hair is a wild, strawberry blond halo around her pale face. Her eyes are different, too, almost the same way that the werewolves' eyes are. The green of them is burning, and the word 'infernal' comes to Stiles' mind. He read once that people used to believe that witches have green eyes.

Lydia's eyes are too green when she manages to get up from the floor and stalks towards Peter, who seems to be frozen to the spot, rolling his eyes and flexing his jaw. "Do something," he snaps at Ms Morell.

"The spell must be carried out," Amelia says in monotone. She doesn't look too well, Stiles thinks. "But not like that, Lydia. You're hurting yourself. You can't demand control over those things and not expect for it to take its toll on you."

"I need to do this," Lydia says. "You don't know what it was like‒ What it is like to be scared that the inside of your head isn't yours, private and sacred. That someone can get in there whenever he wants. Mess you up and force you to do and see things. You have no right to‒ What would you have me do, Amelia? Forgive him?"

"Forgiveness would help you," Amelia says softly. "You could just let go of all that anger."

Lydia makes an ugly sound, like a broken laugh or a muffled sob. "Lydia," Allison says softly. "Let us help you." Lydia shakes her head at that, doesn't even look at Allison, too focused on flicking her eyes between Amelia, and Peter, who is starting to stir. He's like a kanima's victim when the venom wears off, and Stiles imagines himself he can sense the spell dissipating in the air with every passing moment.

The part that makes the hair at the back of Stiles' neck stand is that Ms Morell seems to be agreeing with Lydia. He can't possibly tell on whose side she is, but she isn't fighting Isaac, just standing there and watching them. "Forgiveness is a selfish act, if you really think about it," Ms Morell says. "We forgive for ourselves. It doesn't really do anything for the person who wronged us. Maybe it makes them feel better, but I don't think that Peter's conscience is giving him a hard time. Redemption is what you're looking for."

"And now you agree with me?" Lydia asks. "Now I'm right?"

"All I said is that I want the spell completed," Ms Morell says easily. "I sided with the party that had the greatest chance of winning. But if you can close the passage, I don't much care how you're going to do this."

She moves so fast Stiles is left wondering if there is something more to her, something wolf-like even. She twists out of Isaac's grip at the same time that Isaac whimpers, his back bending backwards at a strange angle. It looks painful, and from the corner of his eye, Stiles can see Ms Morell's spell creeping up Isaac's body like a spider's web, delicate and silvery. Isaac's eyes are golden, his eyes twisted into forced transformation, and the sound he's making keep getting more and more painfully desperate as the spell forces him into a more grotesque bend.

"Stop it!" Scott snarls. He jump over the hole in the floor, as it is the shortest route, and he's next to Isaac in a blink. "What are you doing to him?"

Ms Morell sighs and smiles at the same moment. She looks mildly exasperated with Scott, but like she understands something. That makes one of them, because Stiles is becoming more and more confused at this whole situations. "Just do what you're supposed to, Lydia," Ms Morell says. "And you," she adds towards Scott, like it's a complete sentence or at least a threat.

Lydia hesitates. It's not because she's losing her resolve ‒ her expression isn't any less determined ‒ but the spell seems to be draining her off of energy.

"Tell Lydia to hurry," Ms Morell instructs Scott. "There's only so much pressure even a werewolf's spine can take." As if to prove her point, she makes a small, twitchy movement with her wrist. Isaac screams and crumbles to the floor, twitching and twisting. Scott reaches out like he wants to touch him, but decides against it. He's almost vibrating out of his skin, and Stiles can't remember when was the last time he saw Scott lose control like that.

"Break the spell first," Scott grits out. His voice is nearly unrecognizable.

"This isn't the time for being in love, boy," Ms Morell says. It should be teasing, but it comes out melancholic. "This is the time to run. Or fight, if you're brave enough. Or stupid enough, whichever way you choose to look at this."

The words only just leave her mouth when Peter suddenly lurches, pushes himself off the ground and lunges at Ms Morell, pinning her to the ground and at the same time pushing Isaac away with one arm. He must be unbelievable strong, even like that, in his weakened state, because Jackson stumbles backwards. Ms Morell screams something that sounds like the beginning of a spell, maybe, and then she's just screaming, wet and shrill.

Isaac and Scott try to tear Peter away from Ms Morell, but there's no stopping Peter. He backhands Isaac with ease, pushes Scott away, and when Allison's arrow sinks into his back, it seems to just make him mad. He straightens up finally, and there's blood dripping down his face, his chest, covering his clothes. Stiles peers around him out of the same sick curiosity that seems to have been pushing him from the day one, and sees that Ms Morell's throat is ripped open in a bloody, ragged wound.

"Shit," Danny swears under his breath. Stiles sneaks a glance at him ‒ Danny doesn't usually swear.

Stiles is used to things happening very quickly around werewolves, but the next few minutes give him whiplash.

Peter takes down Jackson without even slowing down, and goes straight for Lydia. Lydia ducks behind Allison, who instructs her with her eyes. She sends an arrow after an arrow straight for Peter, never missing a single shot. Peter, now fully shifted, roars and makes a dive for Lydia. Stiles fumbles with the wolfsbane grenade they fashioned after the Molotov cocktails they used the first time they took Peter down. There are too many werewolves around, though, and Stiles doesn't want to risk it, especially with Derek still unconscious on the floor.

He yelps in surprise when strong finger close around his arm. Amelia practically wrenches him away from Danny, whispering urgently into his ear in a low voice, "You need to help her. Something isn't right here."

"I know," Stiles says. He can taste it in the air, making his bones hum with magical potential. "I promised to help her. I just don't know what to do." It's ridiculous, really, because Peter is alone against four humans and three werewolves, and yet still they can't beat him.

"You promised her," Amelia says blankly. "I should have‒" She shakes her head. "Distract Peter."

Distracting Peter sounds like the worst possible role, but one look at Lydia ‒ pale and thin-lipped like she's seconds away from passing out ‒  has Stiles nudging Danny in the side. Danny nods, and he yanks a wolfsbane grenade out of his jacket pocket. His aim is a lot better than Stiles', and when he throws the grenade, it goes soaring in a graceful arch, hitting Peter square on the head. It shatters, covering Peter in wolfsbane mixed into water.

Peter roars, and then whizzes when Allison shoots him on the soft underside of his throat. Peter stumbles backwards, and Stiles uses the distraction to get closer to Lydia. He catches her wrist, and the fact that she doesn't even try to wrench it away is the best indication of how badly things are going. The poison mixes in with Peter's blood through all the wounds on his body, or so Stiles assumes, and Peter stumbles and falls to his hunches.

Stiles winces and is sure he isn't the only one to do it when Lydia kicks Peter with her high-heeled boot. It stands in sharp contrast with how she curls her fingers around Stiles', pulling him along. When Stiles looks, her eyes are glowing green. She kicks Peter again, and it's probably the most malicious thing she's ever done. "I need him back in that hole," she says.

Nobody questions her. Danny and Jackson, who came back to consciousness by now, haul Peter into the hole with as little gentleness as they can muster. Lydia tugs Stiles closer, and then drops to her knees. Stiles can't do anything but follow, and watch as Lydia picks up the jar that fell to its side in the commotion and scoops the flames back inside it. With her hands. Stiles blinks at her, but Lydia already moved on. Stiles' hand is tingling where Lydia is holding it, and he's pretty sure it's not because the girl of his dreams is touching him.

Peter's eyes are drugged and heavy when he drags them between Lydia and Stiles. Stiles knows he's incapacitated at the moment, but being so close to Peter brings too many unpleasant memories. He can only imagine how horrific it must be for Lydia, who has all the more nightmares to relive.

Instead of panicking, Lydia rocks forward, so that she's almost touching Peter. She raises her hand, very much like Ms Morell (Stiles refuses to think about her corpse laying a few steps from them), but nothing happens. Lydia closes her eyes, furrows her brow, and when she opens them again, they are just green, completely normal, even if tired. "You'd think that I'd want to drag you personally to Hell," Lydia says evenly to Peter. "All the way down, where you belong. You'd think that I'd want to repay you for every lie, every moment of pain, every second of fear you caused me."

"Lydia‒"

"I want all of that," Lydia says. "But most of all, I want to make sure that you never hurt anybody I love, or me, ever again."

Stiles can't be sure, but he thinks he sees fear on Peter's face. Even if it isn't true, dark satisfaction still takes over him.

"Allison," Lydia says softly, and Allison nods, her expression almost as hard as Lydia's.

Allison lifts her bow and aims. Stiles thinks they should maybe get out of the way, but he trusts Allison. He trusts every person in his pack ‒ and Peter obviously doesn't count as a part of it ‒ and maybe they should remember that. Maybe they should think about it more often, and talk more openly. This way they wouldn't find themselves in so much trouble in the first place.

He startles when an arrow pierces the air between him and Lydia, going straight for Peter. This time Stiles is sure that his eyes aren't deceiving him. The arrow does glow green, the same spooky colour Stiles saw in Lydia's eyes before. When it hits Peter, it goes in deep, way deeper than a normal arrow should, straight into Peter's heart. Peter howls, and howls, and howls, and Stiles lets go of Lydia's hand to cover her ears. Lydia slumps against his chest, warm, small, and trembling. Alive and well, and Stiles is scared out of his mind, but he's also relieved.

It's not over, though. The fires in jars begin to dance in front of Stiles, forming a circle that encompasses Peter, Lydia, and Stiles. Stiles can't feel the fire, and it doesn't seem like Lydia can, even if from what Stiles can see, she can't feel much ‒ she's unconscious. But Peter definitely feels the flames, if the new, gargling quality to his howling his anything to go by. The fires engulf him, swallow his Beta form, and through them, Stiles can see Peter shifting back into a human. Stiles watches his flesh char and peel, and doesn't move even when the fire dies out on its own, and all that's left is a carbonated, curled corpse. The sight is gory, makes him want to throw up, but turning his head away from it isn't an option.

Later, a lot later, Scott has to physically wrench Lydia out of Stiles' arms, whispering in a calming voice that they need to leave and get Lydia some help. Stiles finds himself being half-dragged, half-led to a car. Everything smells of smoke and the disgustingly sweet smell of burned flesh, and Stiles has a feeling it won't stop for a very long time.


	6. Epilogue

They meet in the woods, far away enough from the Hale house to not be overheard. They're supposed to meet up with the rest of the pack there in some time, but the plan is rather vague: when Lydia's mother feels comfortable enough to let her go out of the house, when they all finish their packing for the trip back to their respectful colleges. Isaac can't believe that in just two more days they're going back to their academic lives, when yesterday they were digging up a grave in another part of the woods and burying Peter's corpse.

To Isaac's startled confusion, Scott was the one to propose that they meet before the official part of the day. Isaac couldn't possibly say 'no' to that, or to Scott in general. It's the first time they're alone since they came back to Beacon Hills. They didn't do much talking during the grave digging.

"So," Isaac says awkwardly. He's suddenly way too tall, and he tries to hunch his shoulders the best he can, shoving his hands deep into his pockets and kicking at a random root with his snicker.

When he raises his eyes, Scott is mirroring his stance unconsciously. Isaac almost smiles, because it's pretty adorable, but at the same time he's too nervous.

"I wanted to apologize to you," Scott says in a small voice. He looks up, too, and Isaac's voice gets shoved out of his lungs like it always does when he sees Scott's self-conscious little grin and his warm brown eyes.

"Apologize?" Isaac asks, surprised. "You? What for? I don't understand."

"I think you do," Scott sighs. "But I understand if you don't want to make it any easier for me."

Isaac has no idea what to say. He opens his mouth in hope of inspiration coming to him then, but with no luck. He has no idea where Scott is going with this, but the conversation has an air of finality to it. Isaac figures that it's now or never, and he hauls his backpack off of his shoulder. He unzips it and reaches inside, for the shoe box he packed there. "I want to give you something," Isaac says, but Scott shakes his head.

"In a moment, okay? I really need to say it, before I chicken out again."

Isaac finds himself nodding. "Okay." He has a feeling that any moment now, he's going to hear that Scott wants him to move out from their dorm room. Within the next few seconds, Isaac manages to come up with a plan to drop out of college and go back to living with Derek.

That is, until Scott says, "I'm sorry." Isaac is pretty sure that's his line.

"What for?"

"For being a coward," Scott says. "You know, the part where I haven't talked to you for months after‒ Well, you know."

The very memory makes Isaac blush uncomfortably. They're going in some uncomfortable direction, but at the same time Isaac can't help getting hopeful. "You had the right to‒ freak out." All of a sudden, Isaac isn't good with words at all. He can't formulate them, and putting them into sentences seems to be an impossible task. The only thing making him feel better is that Scott stuttered to a stop, too, and is flushing pretty impressively.

Without explaining anything more ‒ explanations don't seem to work out ‒ Isaac pulls out the shoe box and practically shoves it into Scott's hand. Scott's eyebrows shoot up, but he doesn't crack any joke. He opens the carton lid, and peers inside at the pieces of folded notebook sheets, paper towels, recipes, bills, even one or two candy wrappers. Scott manoeuvres the lid awkwardly, putting it under the box so that he can hold both in one hand. He reaches inside the box with his free hand, pulls out the first note, and reads it. His eyes go a little wide, and he ducks his head. Isaac isn't sure what Scott just read, but he fidgets nervously anyway.

Scott folds the first piece of paper as well as he can with one hand, and then he takes another one out. It goes on for what feels like hours to Isaac. He really would like to see Scott's face, because Scott's breathing and heart rate are quicker than usual, but that can mean anything at all. His eyes, though ‒ they would give Isaac his answer.

Scott is very meticulous in reading through Isaac's notes. Some of them, Isaac know, are almost mundane‒

_Scott would be a good leader, if he let himself._

‒ but some of them are almost painful in how they are leaving Isaac's feeling bare and exposed ‒

_The place where he touched me feels warmer. I keep my shoulders slumped as I walk, so that my chest will bear his heat longer._

‒ and other ones are very, very important.

_I'm sorry._

When there are no more notes in the shoe box, Scott closes the lid with the same care he showed before. Isaac watches Scott's fingers moved, enthralled by the smallest details. Scott handles everything ‒ everybody ‒ as if they are precious.

Scott crouches down and puts the box on the ground. Then he straightens up, and finally looks at Isaac.

Nobody has ever looked at Isaac quite like that ‒ like he makes sense, or better yet, makes things make sense. Scott looks at Isaac like he's something brilliant, something worthy, something‒ Everything.

"Sorry," Scott says again. He takes a step towards Isaac, the frost-covered grass crunching under his shoe, and then another and another. "Sorry," he repeats. His hands come up, and he waves them around vaguely before brushing his knuckles against Isaac's forearm. "I don't know how to make this right. I don't want to screw up, but I don't know‒ I'm sorry."

"I know," Isaac says, because he feels that if he won't, Scott will just keep repeating himself. "And I'm sorry, too."

They have a great chance of spinning into a never-ending spiral of apologies. Isaac has no better idea than to shush Scott with his hands on Scott's hips. His heart isn't racing at this point ‒ in fact, Isaac is pretty sure it stopped completely, or emigrated somewhere along with all his insides. Maybe they all fell through the pit at the bottom of his stomach.

Scott rocks into his touch, and his hands come up again. This time he rests them on the collar of Isaac's jacket, and he leans in, tugging Isaac down to his level. Isaac goes willingly, there is no way in hell he would fight Scott on this.

Scott presses their lips together so gently it's not even a pressure, just a brush. He freezes like that, waits for Isaac's reaction, and Isaac gives it to him. It's not his first kiss, not by far, but it feels like learning anyway. When he moves his lips, tests how far he can take the kiss, it's possibly the most important lesson he'll even take. How Scott kisses, how he feels, how he sounds when his breathing speeds up. What sounds he lets out, almost unwillingly, when Isaac tastes the seam of his mouth with his tongue. How Scott gives in and responds with enthusiasm that would probably be almost embarrassing in someone else, or in a different situation.

Insistent, warm fingers push inside Isaac's jacket, and teeth scrape at his lower lip. It's frenzied, but Scott always stops short of hurting him. Isaac trusts him with everything, trusts him more than he trusts even Derek, but he needs to know Scott shares the sentiment.

Isaac knows that your own body can betray you, even when you aren't a werewolf and don't have worry about all those new instincts. Being a teenager will mess with your head all on its own.

"I need to hear you say an actual 'yes', Scott," he whispers urgently, pulling away. "I need to hear it."

Scott chases his lips with his own, distracted and confused at Isaac stopping the kiss.

"Does it mean you're in?" Isaac asks again. He feels inadequate and awkward, but he can't go on without hearing this.

"Yeah," Scott breathes out. He takes a deep breath, and then another one. He pulls Isaac closer, holding him inside the circle of his arms. Isaac doesn't think he'd have the strength to free himself from it, even if he found the will. And maybe he doesn't have. He really hopes that's the case.

There are thousands of words in Isaac's head. They are crowding, hungry to be let out, just like Isaac is hungry for this, probably always will be, even with Scott's arms around him still wishing for more. He's held close, secure and grounded, and his mind is spinning with all those half-sentences, miscarried thoughts, failed attempts at tearing his own heart out of his chest so that he could pack it neatly in a bright box of confessions and give it to Scott.

Scott isn't looking for any of that. He wants Isaac, but he doesn't want anything from him – or maybe he does, but what he wants are those kisses and those looks, and maybe mornings when there are just the two of them in a sleep-warm bed, moonlit nights of breathless runs.

Isaac has collected so many words, but none of them seems fitting, all of them too loose, too abstract, too imprecise to describe what he's feeling in that very moment.

"Tell me," Isaac says.

And then Scott says the word that encompasses all the others, paints it across all the notes Isaac has collected over the last months (or maybe years, sometimes he thinks he started doing this years ago).

"Yes."

***

Lydia is the first one to show up at the Hale house.

Derek hears her car pulling up in front of the house, and then Lydia's soft steps leading to the house. She's walking a lot slower than usual, and there is certain hesitancy to the way she moves that Derek can pick up even by ear. She must still be weakened, Derek thinks. He went to check up on his pack as soon as he walk up in Deaton's office after yet another magic-induced coma. He never went inside Lydia's house, but he listened in from the backyard. Lydia's mother was very worried, but Lydia herself was fine.

Now Lydia opens the door and lets herself in without even bothering to knock. She used to be more tentative about coming here, but now, with Peter dead, she has nothing else to be scared of.

When Derek thinks about Peter's death, he mostly feels guilty that he wasn't the one to do it. Instead his pack was hurting, and he couldn't even see it, or maybe he didn't care enough to do something about it.

Lydia finally finds him in the kitchen, and on her pale face is all the answer that he needs: yes, he disappointed his pack. He betrayed them, even.

Derek knows he should apologize to Lydia, or say that he doesn't blame her, but what gets out if his mouth is, "You went against your alpha."

"I had to," Lydia says, calm as ever. She looks older, somehow. Not the girl who left Beacon Hills half a year ago, but a woman who stood up for herself. "Are you going to kick me out of the pack now?"

Her tone is mildly teasing, but her eyes are serious. Too serious, even, for Derek's liking. Unpleasantly so. Derek doesn't comment on that, nor does he snark about how there isn't much of a pack to kick anybody out of. It all fell apart on his hands, and now all Derek can do is to pretend he's fine with it.

"No," he says at last. "Where's your friend?" he asks. He can't think of anything else to say, despite the many questions he should probably have. He notes idly that this is the first time he's been alone with Lydia in‒ Possibly ever. He never really thought much about it, or about her, in all honesty. Now he sees where he went wrong with Lydia. He underestimated her. They all did, maybe save for Stiles (or maybe not, maybe even he never knew how strong she could be) and, ironically, Peter.

"Amelia?" Lydia asks. She leans against the old counter, but then this better of it, looks at her hand as if he expects them to have gotten dirty. "She had to go back. Write a report on me, I suppose." She smiles, and it's very fake. "She wasn't happy with me. That's not the way she'd solve the Peter problem. Murder, using magic like that ‒ she doesn't approve."

Derek nods. Yes, those things are governed by certain rules. Lydia probably broke many of them that day.

"She even told me to give you a message," Lydia adds. "Let your ghosts move on, Derek Hale," she says in a great impression of Amelia's worried tone. "Let them go, so they can let go of you."

"What does it even mean?" Derek asks.

Lydia shrugs. "She says those things a lot." She doesn't seem very bothered by it. Derek wants to ask her if it's over now, and he hates it that Lydia knows something he doesn't. That she made her choices behind his back‒ That she made herself equal to him, he suddenly realizes. This young woman, immune yet still human, executed power that should be the alpha's over the pack. From that position she could easily overthrow Derek. They pack would follow her, but she decided to come to him instead. Derek doesn't know what it means, but he tries desperately to grasp the elusive answer.

Another car pulls up by the house. Derek is able to recognize the engines of every car that belongs to the members of the pack. "Stiles," Derek says, and Lydia nods, as if she can hear it, too.

"I need to talk to him." She doesn't ask for privacy, just walks out. She must know that Derek will listen in, even unintentionally, but apparently she doesn't care.

Derek hears her walk out of the house, and down the porch steps. The Jeep's door opens and closes with a loud slam.

"Lydia!" Stiles sounds equal parts pleased, surprised, and suspicious. After what she pulled him into, it's quite understandable. "You look good! Well, no, you always look good, but I mean for someone who‒ You know. You were there."

"Yes," Lydia agrees. "I wanted to thank you for helping me." Her voice drops to a pleasant, low tone that makes Stiles breath quicker and Derek listen more intently.

"Yeah? That's what friends are for, so, no need. Unless you really want to. Then I'm really not going to stop you."

"Stiles," Lydia says. Irritation that seems to almost always accompany her when she's talking to Stiles starts to creep back in. She schools herself quickly, though. "I'm going to kiss you now," she says, nice and patient. Derek has to fight with himself not to jump to his feet and stalk towards the kitchen window like a nosy soccer mom. "Just this once, okay? And after that, you have to promise me that you will move on. We've been both holding on to some things for much too long."

There's no answer from Stiles, at least none that Derek can hear. Presumably he nods his head. Even Derek is aware of Stiles' crush, and he doesn't think Stiles would pass on the occasion to kiss the girl on his dreams.

"Do you promise?" Lydia asks. Derek can actually hear an honest, warm smile in her voice.

Derek doesn't have to look out of the window. The staccato of Stiles' heart tells him everything about how Lydia leans in and plants a kiss on his lips. All of it lasts maybe ten seconds, and then there are steps leading back into the house ‒ two humans walking hand in hand.

Soon after that, the rest of the pack starts filling the house with voices and laughter. They don't mourn Peter like they mourned Erica and Boyd, and Derek doesn't hold it against them. He buried his uncle a long time ago, and came to accept the fact that he was living with a ghost.

Let your ghosts go, Amelia said.

What will he have left if he does?

Lydia goes to talk to Allison, and their whisper to each other, their heads bowed and lips barely moving. Perhaps the two of them will be able to look at each other from even ground now ‒ they both did something they shouldn't have, but needed to do. Now they can rebuild their friendship, and finally be honest with each other. There seems to be a lot of that going around, now that Derek thinks about it. He watches Jackson place a hand on Allison shoulder, and the easy way she relaxes into the touch. Jackson says something about art schools, and Allison smiles. Lydia smiles, too ‒ she moved on, just like she told Stiles.

Scott and Isaac come as the very last ones. It takes Derek a beat to realize the shifted dynamic between them, and then about a second to dismiss it as not his business. It couldn't possibly hurt the pack ‒ and here he is, thinking in those terms again ‒ if anything, it may make them stronger.

The rest of the pack takes longer to notice anything, but finally, they do. Danny furrows his brow, and Stiles looks like an exasperated mother. His face reads 'Finally', loud and clear. The girls start whispering again, and Jackson is‒ Jackson.

"So you into guys now, McCall?" he barks out on a pretty false laugh. At this point Jackson has to try very hard to be his usual, asshole self, because Derek is pretty sure he considers everyone in this room to be his friends.

"What?" Scott wears his most confused expression ‒ the one that used to give Derek headaches. "No, not really?"

"Lahey is a guy," Jackson points out. Allison elbows him indiscreetly, but he just catches her forearm and plunges on. "In case that's news to you, which, with your typical obliviousness, who knows."

"Huh," Scott says, and then catches himself with a shake of his head. "No. I mean, yeah, but‒ It's Isaac, you know?" His eyes go wide, in that way that makes Stiles tease him with words like 'puppy'. Isaac must find it endearing, because he smiles. The tips of his ears are flushed pink.

"Wow, McCall. You've made me lose all interest in picking on you. I give up." Jackson raises his hands to underline his point.

Looking at them like that ‒ teasing each other like that, joking ‒ Derek can't help but notice that they truly are a pack. What is between them is much more than friendship, much more than family, even. They figured out all on their own what he couldn't teach them, perhaps because he forgot all about it, too. Those are bonds that cannon be severed. The pack never truly breaks apart, once it's been properly established.

This one is as real as they come, even if it was forged under less than perfect circumstances. The only problem is, Derek isn't a part of it.

Lydia didn't have to reach out for the alpha's position. It wasn't occupied in the first place.

Derek doesn't even notice that he's smiling a bitter, ugly smile, until Stiles says, "Nice to see you going to your old, creeper ways, Derek."

"I think you should go," Derek says. They stare at him blankly. "This isn't your den anymore. You did what you wanted to do, and now you can go." He jerks his head towards the door.

Nobody moves. They look more confused than Scott on his worst day.

Lydia is the one who springs into motion first. Her heels awaken echoes on the newly-repaired floor as she circles the room. She side-steps the spot where the hole she killed Peter in used to be, but she doesn't slow down, just peers at the walls and windows, the visible piping. "You should fix this, you know," she says conversationally. "The roof, and all the other stuff. Who knows, maybe even get some furniture? So we have somewhere to come back to."

"Come back to," Derek says. The concept is so alien to what he came to believe, it sits wrong on his tongue.

"Oh," Allison says, like suddenly all makes sense. "Oh, Derek, we didn't mean to‒"

"What?" Scott asks. "What's going on, what are we even talking about?"

Isaac opens his mouth to explain, but Lydia cuts him off. "What do you want us to say, Derek?" she asks. "Congratulations on your deeply rooted abandonment issues?"

"We just went to college, dude," Jackson says. "Kids do that."

"Derek has the empty nest syndrome?" Danny asks, arching his eyebrow. "We're coming back for the summer. And then we'll be back for good after college, right? I thought that was always the plan. That's what I signed up when I joined the pack and took you as my alpha."

"Exactly," Lydia agrees with a nod. "You can start the renovations in the spring, and then we'll help you out. We'll be done in no time. I'll send you some projects to look at."

When she's done with her little reconnaissance, Lydia doesn't go to stand opposite Derek, with the rest of the pack. Instead she takes the place by Derek's shoulder. He knows what it means, and on some level the pack senses it, too.

Derek tenses for a moment, and Lydia waits him out. "I want to tear the house to the ground," Derek says.

"Okay," Lydia agrees, like it's just that simple. Like they can do anything.

"Okay," Derek repeats after her. He finally relaxes, slowly but completely. For the first time Derek decides to stop rebuilding, and trying to chase down what he once had ‒ with his family, with this house, with the pack. He wants to start building something entirely new on the ashes. Cover them up, because they will always be there, but they don't need to be a part of his every day.

Fresh start, for all of them.

_~fin~_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title of the story comes from Neil Gaiman's quote:  
> “Let us begin this letter, this prelude to an encounter, formally, as a declaration, in the old-fashioned way: I love you. You do not know me (although you have seen me, smiled at me). I know you (although not so well as I would like. I want to be there when your eyes flutter open in the morning, and you see me, and you smile. Surely this would be paradise enough?). So I do declare myself to you now, with pen set to paper. I declare it again: I love you.”

**Author's Note:**

> A list of thank yous should be very long with this fic, so let me ramble a little.  
> Thanks go to my artist, the inspiring, enthusiastic Verity, who made magic and turned my story into lovely art. I don't know how, it's very mysterious, but I'm astonished by how well it fits with the story, and how much talent she decided to put into Paradise Enough.  
> Great thanks, as usual, to eak_a_mouse, for pointing out my (sometimes glaring) mistakes to me, and putting up with me. And for making dick jokes, maybe even more often than I make them.  
> Thanks and hugs to flitter_and_fly who lured me in, made me trust myself with this commitment, and brought so many amazing writers and artists together. Thank you for making us feel like one big pack from day one.  
> Thanks to all the people who brought me coffee over the last four months. To my friends, and to my Dad, who doesn't even cringe when I say I write about penises.  
> Last but not least, thanks go to you, reader, because you are an amazing person who actually takes the time to look at A/N. I thought I'm the only person who does that.
> 
> I can't believe we're here. As I've been saying to Verity, it's been four months. Four. Can you imagine how much has changed, where have I dragged this story with me? Even I can't recall every place Paradise Enough kept me company. I hated it at times, I had tremendous fun with it more often. Either way, this feels final.
> 
> Now, this was supposed to be dedicated to I., but really, I think all I have to say is this: when I was younger, I fell in love with a girl who lived next to a graveyard. I had a strange idea about what is romantic.
> 
> Finally, some technical stuff. Hopefully, the warnings are clear enough. If you find something that may be triggery for others, message me, I want to be considerate ebout this. If you find a mistake, just go ahead and point it out in the comments, possibly while making fun of the poor author. Sure, laugh at the author, it's not like we have feelings.
> 
> Take care, and stay perfect,  
> Monika.


End file.
